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THE 



COMPLETE WORKS 



ROBERT BURNS 



EDITED FROM THE 



BEST PRINTED AND MANUSCRIPT AUTHORITIES, 



WITH GLOSSARIAL INDEX AND A BIOGRAPHICAL MEMOIR, 



ALEXANDER SMITH. 



miusitratcti. 




%.. 



TROY, N.Y.: 
NIMS & KNIGHT. 



# 



Copyright, 1887, 
By T. Y. Crowell & Co. 



Typography by J. S. Gushing & Co., Boston. 



Presswork by Berwick & Smith, Boston. 




BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



Robert Burns was born about two miles to the south of Ayr, in the neighbor- 
hood of Alloway Kirk and the Bridge of Doon, on the 25th January, 1 759. The 
cottage, a clay one, had been constructed by his father, and a week after the 
poet's birth it gave way in a violent wind, and mother and child were carried at 
midnight to the shelter of a neighbor's dwelling. 

When Burns became famous he wore, more however for ornament than use — 
like the second jacket of a hussar — a certain vague Jacobitism. Both in his verses 
and his letters he makes allusion to the constancy with which his ancestors fol- 
lowed the banner of the^Stuarts, and to the misfortunes which their loyalty brought 
upon them. The family was a Kincardineshire one — in which county indeed, it 
can be traced pretty far back by inscriptions in churchyards, documents appertain- 
ing to leases and the like — and the poet's grandfather and uncles were out, it is 
said, in the Rebellion of 1715. When the title and estates of the Earl Marischal 
were forfeited on account of the uprising, Burns's grandfather seems to have been 
brought into trouble. He lost his farm, and his son came southward in search of 
employment. The poet's father, who spelt his name Burnes, and who was sus- 
pected of having a share in the Rebellion of 1745, came into the neighborhood 
of Edinburgh, where he obtained employment as a gardener. Afterwards he 
went into Ayrshire, where, becoming overseer to Mr. Ferguson of Doonholm and 
leasing a few acres of land, he erected a house and brought home his wife, Agnes 
Br(\vn, in December, 1757. Robert was the firstborn. Brain, hypochondria, and 
general superiority, he inherited from his father; from his mother he drew his 
lyrical gift, his wit, his mirth. She had a fine complexion, bright dark eyes, 
cheerful spirits, and a ir.emory stored with song and ballad — a love for which 
Robert drew in with her milk. 

In 1 766, William Burnes removed to the farm of Mount Oliphant in the parish 
of Ayr; but the soil was sour and bitter, and on the death of Mr. Ferguson, to 
whom Mount Oliphant belonged, the management of the estate fell into the hands 
of a factor, of whom all the world has heard. Disputes arose between the official 
and the tenant. Harsh letters were read by the fireside at Mount Oliphant, and 
were remembered years afterwards, bitterly enough, by at least one of the listen- 
ers. Burnes left his farm after an occupancy of six years, and removed to Loch- 
lea, a larger and better one in the parish of Tarbolton. Here, however, an 
unfortunate difference arose between tenant and landlord as to the conditions of 
lease. Arbiters were chosen, and a decision was given in favor of the proprietor. 



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BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



This misfortirne seems to have broken the spirit of Burnes. He died of consump- 
tion on the 13th February, 1784, aged 63, weary enough of his long strife with 
poverty and ungenial soils, but not before he had learned to take pride in the 
abilities of his eldest son, and to tremble for his passions. 

Burnes was an admirable specimen of the Scottish yeoman, or small farmer, of 
the last century; for peasant he never was, nor did he come of a race of peasants. 
In his whole mental build and training he was superior to the people by whom 
he was surrounded. He had forefathers he could look back to ; he had family 
traditions which he kept sacred. Hard-headed, industrious, religious, somewhat 
austere, he ruled his household with a despotism, which affection and respect on 
the part of the ruled made light and easy. To the blood of the Burneses, a love 
of knowledge was native, as valor, in the old times, was native to the blood of the 
Douglasses. The poet's grandfather built a school at Clockenhill in Kincardine, 
the first known in that part of the country. Burnes was of the same strain, and he 
resolved that his sons should have every educational advantage his means could 
allow. To secure this he was willing to rise early and drudge late. Accord- 
ingly, Robert, when six years old, was sent to a school at AUoway Mill; and on 
the removal of the teacher a few months afterwards to another post, Burnes, in 
conjunction with a few of his neighbors, engaged Mr. John Murdoch, boarding 
him in their houses by turns, and paying him a small sum of money quarterly. 
Mr. Murdoch entered upon his duties, and had Robert and Gilbert for pupils. 
Under him they acquired reading, spelling, and writing; they were drilled in 
English grammar, taught to turn verse into prose, to substitute synonymous 
expressions for poetical words, and to supply ellipses. He also attempted to 
teach them a little Church music, but with no great success. He seems to have 
taken to the boys, and to have been pleased with their industry and intelligence. 
Gilbert was his favorite on account of his gay spirits and frolicsome look. 
Robert was by comparison taciturn — distinctly stupid in the matter of psalmody 
— and his countenance was swarthy, serious, and grave. 

Our information respecting the family circle at Mount Oliphant, more interest- 
ing now than that of any other contemporary Scottish family circle, is derived 
entirely from the reminiscences of the tutor, and of Gilbert and Robert themselves. 
And however we may value every trivial fact and hint, and attempt to make it a 
window of insight, these days, as they passed on, seemed dull and matter-of-fact 
enough to all concerned. Mr. Murdoch considered his pupils creditably diligent, 
but nowise remarkable. To Gilbert, these early years were made interesting when 
looked back upon in the light of his brother's glory. Of that period, Robert 
wrote a good deal at various times to \arious correspondents, when the vcorld had 
become curious; but as in the case of all such writings, he unconsciously mixes 
the past with the present — -looks back on his ninth year with the eyes of his thir- 
tieth. He tells us that he was bv no means a favorite with anvbodv; that though 



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BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



it cost the master some thrashings, " I made an excellent English scholar; and by 
the time I was ten or eleven years of age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, 
and particles." Also we are told that in the family resided a certain old woman 
— Betty Davidson by name, as research has discovered — who had the largest 
collection in the country of tales and songs concerning devils, ghosts, fairies, etc.; 
and that to the recital of these Robert gave attentive ear, unconsciously laying up 
material for future Tams-o-Shanter, and Addresses to the Deil. As for books, he 
had procured the Life of Hannibal, and the History of Sir William Wallace : 
the first of a classical turn, lent by Mr. Murdoch ; the second, purely traditionary, 
the property of a neighboring blacksmith, constituting probably his entire secular 
library; and in a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, he describes how the perusal of the latter 
moved him, — 

" In those boyish days, I remember in particular being struck with that part of 
Wallace's story where these lines occur : 

Syne to the Leglen wood when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat. 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and walked 
half a dozen miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with as much devout 
enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto, and explored every den and dell where 
I could suppose my heroic countryman to have lodged.'" 

When Mr. <^Iurdoch left Mount Oliphant, the education of the family fell on 
the father, who, when the boys came in from labor on the edge of the wintry twi- 
light, lit his candle and taught them arithmetic. He also, when engaged in work 
with his sons, directed the conversation to improving subjects. He got books for 
them from a book society in Ayr; among which are named Derham's Physico 
and Astro- Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of God. Stackhouse's History of the 
Bible was in the house, and from it Robert contrived to extract a considerable 
knowledge of ancient history. Mr. Murdoch sometimes visited the family and 
brought books with him. On one occasion he read Titus Andronicus aloud at 
Mount Oliphant, and Robert's pure taste rose in a passionate revolt against its 
coarse cruelties and unspiritual horrors. When about fourteen years of age, he 
and his brother Gilbert were sent " week about during a summer quarter " to a 
parish school two or three miles distant from the farm to improve themselves in 
penmanship. Next year, about midsummer, Robert spent three weeks with his 
tutor, Murdoch, who had established himself in Ayr. The first week was given 
to a careful revision of the English Grammar, the remaining fortnight was devoted 
to French, and on his return he brought with him the Adventures of Telemachus 
and a French Dictionary, and with these he used to work alone during his eve- 
nings. He also turned his attention to Latin, but does not seem to have made 
much progress therein, although in after-life he could introduce a sentence or so of 
the ancient tongue to adorn his correspondence. By the time the family had left 



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BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



Mount Oliphant, he had torn the heart out of a good many books, among which 
were several theological works, some of a philosophical nature, a few novels, the 
Spectator, Shakespeare, Pope's Homer, and, above all, the Works of Allan 
Ramsay. These, with the Bible, a collection of English songs, and a collection of 
letters, were almost the only books he was acquainted with when he broke out in 
literature. No great library certainly, but he had a quick eye and ear. and ail 
Ayrshire was an open page to him, filled with strange matter, which he only 
needed to read off into passionate love-song or blistering satire. 

In his sixteenth year the family removed from Mount (lliphant to Lochlea. 
Here Robert and Gilbert were employed regularly on the farm, and received from 
their father £"] per annum of wages. Up till now, Burns had led a solitary self- 
contained life, with no companionship save his own thoughts and what books he 
could procure, with no acquaintances save his father, his brother, and Mr. Murdoch. 
This seclusion was now about to cease. In his seventeenth year, " to give his man- 
ners a finish," he went to a country dancing school, — an important step in life for 
any young fellow, a specially important step for a youth of his years, heart, brain, 
and passion. In the Tarbolton dancing school the outer world with its fascina- 
tions burst upon him. It was like attaining majority and freedom. It was like 
coming up to London from the provinces. Here he first felt the sweets of society, 
and could assure himself of the truthfulness of his innate sense of superiority. At 
the dancing school, he encountered other young rustics laudably ambitious of 
" brushing up their manners," and, what was of more consequence, he encountered 
their partners also. This was his first season, and he was as gay as a young man 
of fortune who had entered on his first London one. His days were spent in hard 
work, but the evenings were his own, and these he seems to have spent almost 
entirely in sweethearting on his own account, or on that of others. His brother 
tells us that he was almost constantly in love. His inamoratas were the freckled 
beauties who milked cows and hoed potatoes; but his passionate imagination 
attired them with the most wonderful graces. He was Antony, and he found a 
Cleopatra — for whom the world were well lost — in every harvest field. For 
some years onward he did not read much; indeed, his fruitful reading, with the 
exception of Fergiissoit's Poems, of which hereafter, was accomplished by the 
time he was seventeen; his leisure being occupied in making love to rustic maids, 
where his big black eyes could come into play. Perhaps, on the whole, looking 
to poetic outcome, he could not have employed himself to better purpose. 

He was now rapidly getting perilous cargo on board. The Tarbolton dancing 
school introduced him to unlimited sweethearting, and his nineteenth summer, 
which he spent in the study of mensuration, at the school at Kirkoswald, made 
him acquainted with the interior of taverns, and with " scenes of swaggering riot." 
He also made the acquaintance of certain smugglers who frequented that l)are 
and deeply-coved coast, and seems to have been attracted by their lawless ways 




SE 



BIO GRAPHIC A J- PREFA CE. 



and speeches. It is characteristic, that in the midst of his studies, he was upset 
by the charms of a country girl who lived next door to the school. While taking 
the sun's altitude, he observed her walking in the adjoining garden, and Love put 
Trigonometry to flight. During his stay at Kirkoswald, he had read Shenstone 
and Thomson, and on his return home he maintained a literary correspondence 
with his schoolfellows, and pleased his vanity with tlie thought that he could turn 
a sentence with greater skill and neatness than any one of them. 

For some time it had been Burns's habit to take a small portion of land from his 
father for the purpose of raising flax; and, as he had now some idea of settliiig 
in life, it struck him that if he could add to his farmer-craft the accomplishment 
of flax-dressing, it might not be unprofitable. He accordingly went to live with 
a relation of his mother's in Irvine — Peacock by name — who followed that busi- 
ness, and with him for some time he worked with diligence and success. But 
while welcoming the New Year morning after a bacchanalian fashion, the premises 
took fire, and his schemes were laid waste. Just at this time, too — to complete 
his discomliture — he had been jilted by a sweetheart, " who had pledged her soul 
to meet him in the held of matrimony." In almost all the foul weather whicl* 
Burns encountered, a woman may be discovered flitting through it like a stormy 
petrel. His residence at Irvine was a loss, in a worldly point of view, but tliere 
he ripened rapidly, both spiritually and poetically. At Irvine, as at Kirkoswald, he 
made the acquaintance of persons engaged in contraband traffic, and he tells us 
that a chief friend of his "spoke of illicit love with the levity of a sailor — which, 
hitherto, I had regarded with horror. There his friendship did me a mischief." 
About this time, too, John Rankine — to whom he afterwards addressed several 
of his epistles — -introduced him to St. ^Mary's Lodge, in Tarbolton, and he became 
an enthusiastic Freemason. Of his mental states and intellectual progress we are 
furnished with numerous hints. He was member of a debating club at Tarbolton, 
and the question for Hallowe'en still exists in his handwriting. It is as follows : 
" Suppose a young man, Ijred a farmer, but without any fortune, has it in his 
power to marry either of two women, the one a girl of large fortune, but neither 
handsome in person nor agreeable in conversation, but who can manage the 
household affairs of a farm well enough; the other of them a girl every way 
agreeable in person, conversation, and behavior, but without any fortune; which 
of them shall he choose? " Not a bad subject for a collection of clever rustics to 
sharpen their wits upon ! We may surmise that Burns found himself as mucli 
superior in del)ate to his companions at the Bachelors' Club as he had previously 
found himself superior to his Kirkoswald correspondents in letter-writing. The 
question for the Hallowe'en discussion is interesting mainly in so far as it indicates 
what kind of discussions were being at that time conducted in his own brain; and 
also how habitually, then and afterwards, his thinking grew out of his personal 
condition and surroundings. A question of this kind interested him more than 



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BIO GRAPHICAL PRErA CE. 



whether, for instance, Cromwell deserved well of his country. Neither now nor 
afterwards did he trouble himself much about far-removed things. He cared for 
no other land than Caledonia. He did not sing of Helen's beauty, but of the 
beauty of the country girl he loved. His poems were as much the product of 
his own farm and its immediate neighborhood, as were the clothes and shoes he 
wore, the oats and turnips he grew. Another aspect of him may be found in the 
letter addressed to his father three days before the Irvine flax-shop went on fire. 
It is infected with a magnificent hypochondriasis. It is written, as by a Boling- 
l)roke — by a man who had played for a mighty stake, and who, when defeated, 
could smile gloomily and turn fortune's slipperiness into parables. And all the 
while the dark philosophy and the rolling periods flowed from the pen of a country 
lad, whose lodgings are understood to have cost a shilling per week, and " whose 
meal was nearly out, but who was going to borrow till he got more." One other 
circumstance attending his Irvine life deserves notice — his falling in with a copy 
of Eergusson's Poems. For some time previously he had not written much, but 
Fergusson stirred him with emulation; and on his removal to Mossgiel, shortly 
afterwards, he in a single winter poured forth more immortal verse — measured 
by mere quantity — than almost any poet in the same space of time, either before 
his day or after. 

Three months before the death of the elder Burnes, Robert and Gilbert rented 
the farm of Mossgiel in the parish of Mauchline. The farm consisted of 119 
acres, and its rent was £go. After the father's death the whole family removed 
thither. Burns was now twenty-four years of age, and come to his full strength 
of limb, brain, and passion. As a young farmer on his own account, he mixed 
more freely than hitherto in the society of the country-side, and in a more inde- 
pendent fashion. He had the black eyes which Sir Walter saw afterwards in 
Edinburgh, and remembered to have " glowed." He had wit, which convulsed 
the Masonic Meetings, and a rough-and-ready sarcasm with which he flayed his 
foes. Besides all this, his companionship at Irvine had borne its fruits. He had 
become the father of an illegitimate child, had been rebuked for his transgression 
before the congregation, and had, in revenge, written witty and wicked verses on 
the reprimand and its occasion, to his correspondent Rankine. And when we 
note here that he came into fierce collision with at least one section of the clergy 
of his country, all the conditions have been indicated which went to make up 
Burns the man and Burns the poet. 

Ayrshire was at this period a sort of theological bear-garden. The more im- 
portant clergymen of the district were divided into New Lights and Auld Lights; 
they wrangled in Church Courts, they wrote and harangued against each other; 
and, as the adherents of the one party or the other made up almost the entire 
population, and as in such disputes Scotchmen take an extraordinary interest, 
the county was set very prettily by the ears. The Auld Light divines were strict 



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BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



Calvinists, laying great stress on the doctrine of Justification by Faith, and inclined 
generally to exercise spiritual authority after a somewhat despotic fashion. The 
New Light divines were less dogmatic, less inclined to religious gloom and acerbity, 
and they possessed, on the whole, more literature and knowledge of the world. 
Burns became deeply interested in the theological warfare, and at once ranged 
himself on the liberal side. From his being a poet this was to have been expected, 
but various circumstances concurred in making his partisanship more than usually 
decided. The elder Burnes was, in his ways of thinking, a New Light, and his 
religious notions he impressed carefully on his children, — his son consequently, in 
taking up the ground he did, was acting in accordance with received ideas and 
with early training. Besides, Burns's most important friends at this period — 
Mr. Gavin Hamilton, from whom he held his farm on a sub-lease, and Mr. Aitken, 
to whom the Cotter's Saturday Night was dedicated — were in the thick of the 
contest on the New Light side. Mr. Hamilton was engaged in personal dispute 
with the Rev. Mr. Auld — the clergyman who rebuked Burns — and Mr. Aitken 
had the management of the case of Dr. MacGill, who was cited before the local 
Church Courts on a charge of heterodoxy. Hamilton and Aitken held a certain 
position in the county, — they were full of talent, they were hospitable, they were 
witty in themselves, and could appreciate wit in others. They were of higher 
social rank than Burns's associates had hitherto been, they had formed a warm 
friendship for him, and it was not unnatural that he should become their ally, and 
serve their cause with what weapons he had. Besides, wit has ever been a foe to 
the Puritan. Cavaliers fight with song and jest, as well as with sword and spear, 
and sometimes more effectively. Hudibras and Worcester are flung into opposite 
scales, and make the balance even. From training and temperament, Burns was 
an enemy of the Auld Light section; conscious of his powers, and burning to 
distinguish himself, he searched for an opportunity as anxiously as ever did Irish- 
man for a head at Donnyl^rook, and when he found it, he struck, without too 
curiously inquiring into the rights and wrongs of the matter. At Masonic Meet- 
ings, at the tables of his friends, at fairs, at gatherings round church-doors on 
Sundays, he argued, talked, joked, flung out sarcasms — ■ to be gathered up, 
repeated, and re-repeated- — and maddened in every way the wild-boar of ortho- 
doxy by the javelins of epigram. The satirical opportunity at length came, and 
Burns was not slow to take advantage of it. Two Auld Light divines, the Rev. 
John Russel and tlic Rev. Alex. Moodie, quarrelled about their respective parochial 
boundaries, and the question came before the Presbytery for settlement. \\\ the 
court — when Burns was present — the reverend gentlemen indulged in coarse 
personal altercation, and the Twa Herds was the result. Copies of this satire 
were handed about, and for the first time Burns tasted how sweet a thing was 
applause. The circle of his acquaintances extended itself, and he could now 
call several clergymen of the moderate party his friends. The Tvja Herds was 




BIO GRAPHICAL PREFA CE. 



followed by the tremendous satire of Holy Wi//ie's Prayer, and by the Hoey 
Pair, — -the last equally witty, equally familiar in its allusions to sacred things, 
out distinguished by short poetic touches, by descriptions of character and 
manners, unknown in Scottish poetry since the days of Dunbar. These pieces 
caused great stir; friends admired and applauded; foes hated and reviled. His 
brother Gilbert spoke words of caution which, had Burns heeded, it would have 
been better for his fame. But to check such thunder in mid-volley was, perhaps, 
more than could have been expected of poetic flesh and blood. 

Burni interested himself deeply in the theological disputes of his district, but 
he did not employ himself entirely in writing squibs against that section of the 
clergy which he disliked. He had already composed Mailie's Elegy and the 
Epistle to Davie : the first working in an element of humor ennobled by moral 
reflection, a peculiar manner in which he lived to produce finer specimens; the 
second almost purely didactic, and which he hardly ever surpassed; and as he 
was now in the full flush of inspiration, every other day produced its poem. 
He did not go far a-field for his subjects; he found sufficient inspiration in his 
daily life and the most familiar objects. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton had 
established a shop for groceries, and having a liking for the study of medicine, 
he took upon himself the airs of a physician, and advertised that " advice woulc 
be given in common disorders, at the shop, gratis." On one occasion, at the 
Tarbolton Mason-lodge, when Burns was present, the schoolmaster made a 
somewhat ostentatious display of his medical acquirements. To a man so 
easily moved as Burns, this hint was sufficient. On his way home from the 
Lodge the terrible grotesquerie of Death and Dr. Hornbook floated through 
his mind, and on the following afternoon the verses were repeated to Gilbert. 
Not long after, in a Sunday afternoon walk, he recited to Gilbert the Cotter's 
Saturday Night, who described himself as electrified by the recital^ as indeed 
he might well be. To Gilbert also the Address to the Deil was repeated while the 
two brothers were engaged with their carts in bringing home coals for family use. 
At this time, too, his poetic Epistles to lapraik and others were composed — 
pieces which for verve and hurry and gush of versification seem to have been 
wiitten at a sitting, yet for curious felicities of expression might have been under 
the file for years. It was Burns's habit, Mr. Chambers tells us, to keep his MSS. 
in the drawer of a little deal table in the garret at Mossgiel; and his youngest 
sister was wont, when he went out to afternoon labor, to slip up quietly and hunt 
for the freshly-written verses. Indeed, during the winter of 1785-86 Burns wrote 
almost all the poems which were afterwards published in the Kilmarnock edition. 

But at this time he had other matters on hand than the writing of verses. The 
farm at Mossgiel was turning out badly; the soil was sour and wet, and, from 
mistakes in the matter of seed, the crops were failures. His prospects were 
made still darker by his relation with Jean Armour. He had made the acquaint- 



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BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



ance of this young woman at a penny wedding in Mauchline, shortly after he 
went to reside at Mossgiel, and the acquaintanceship, on his part at least, soon 
ripened into passion. In the spring of 1786, when baited with farming difficulties, 
he learned that Jean was about to become a mother, and the intelligence came on 
him like a thunder-clap. Urged by a very proper feeling, he resolved to make the 
unhappy young woman all the reparation in his power, and accordingly he placed 
in her hands a written acknowledgement of marriage — a document sufficient by 
the law of Scotland to legalize their connexion, though after a somewhat irregular 
fashion. When Mr. Armour heard of Jean's intimacy with Burns and its misera- 
ble result, he was moved with indignation, and he finally persuaded her to deliver 
into his hands Burns's written paper, and this document he destroyed, although, 
for anything he knew, he destroyed along with it his daughter's good fame. 
Burns's feelings at this crisis may be imagined. Pride, love, anger, despair, strove 
for mastery in his breast. Weary of his country, almost of his existence, and 
seeing ruin staring him in the face at Mossgiel, he resolved to seek better fortune 
and solace for a lacerated heart, in exile. He accordingly arranged with Dr. 
Douglas to act as book-keeper on his estate in Jamaica. In order to earn the 
passage money, he was advised to publish the wonderful verses then lying in the 
drawer of the deal table at Mossgiel. This advice jumped pleasantly enough with 
his own wishes, and without loss of time he issued his subscription papers and 
began to prepare for the press. He Jvnew that his poems possessed merit; he 
felt that applause would sweeten his "good night." It is curious to think of 
Burns's wretched state — in a spiritual as well as a pecuniary sense — at this time, 
and of the centenary the other year which girdled the planet as with a l:)la?e i^f 
festal fire and a roll of triumphal drums ! Curious to think that the volume 
which Scotland regards as the most precious in her possession should have been 
published to raise nine pounds to carry its author into exile. 

All the world has heard of Highland Mary — in life a maid-servant in the family 
of Mr. Hamilton, after death to be remembered with Dante's Beatrice and 
Petrarch's Laura. How Burns and Mary became acquainted we have little means 
of knowing — indeed the whole relationship is somewhat obscure — but Burns 
loved her as he loved no other woman, and her memory is preserved in the finest 
expression of his love and grief. Strangely enough, it seems to have been in the 
fierce rupture between himself and Jean that this white flower of love sprang up, 
sudden in its growth, brief in its passion and beauty. It was arranged that the 
lovers should become man and wife, and that Mary should return to her friends to 
prepare for her wedding. Before her departure there was a farewell scene. " On 
the second Sunday of May," Burns writes to Mr. Thomson, after an historical 
fashion which has something touching in it, " in a sequestered spot on the banks 
of the Ayr the interview took place." The lovers met and plighted solemn troth. 
.\ccording to popular statement, they stood on either side of a brook, they dipped 





BIO GRAPHIC A L PRE FA CE. 



their hands in the water, eAchanged Bibles — and parted. Mary died at Greenock, 
and was Ijuried in a dingy churchyard hemmed by narrow streets — beclanged now 
by innumerable hammers, and within a stone's throw of passing steamers. Infor- 
mation of her death was brought to Burns at Mossgiel; he \vent to the window to 
read the letter, and the family noticed that on a sudden his face changed. He went 
out without speaking; they respected his grief and were silent. On the whole 
matter Burns remained singularly reticent; but years after, from a sudden geysir of 
impassioned song, we learn that through all that time she had never been forgotten. 

Jean was approaching her confinement, and having heard that Mr. Armour was 
about to resort to legal measures to force him to maintain his expected progeny — 
an impossibility in his present circumstances — Burns left Mauchline and went to 
reside in the neighborhood of Kilmarnock, where, in gloomy mood enough, he 
corrected his proof sheets. The volume appeared about the end of July, and 
thanks to the exertion of his friends, the impression was almost immediately 
exhausted. Its success was decided. All Ayrshire rang with its praise. His 
friends were of course anxious that he should remain in Scotland; and as they 
possessed some influence, he lingered in Ayrshire, loth to depart, hoping that 
something would turn up, but quite undecided as to the complexion and nature of 
the desired something. Wronged as he considered himself to have been by the 
Armour family, he was still conscious of a lingering affection for Jean. The poems, 
having made a conquest of Ayrshire, began to radiate out on every side. Professor 
Dugald Stewart, then resident at Catrine, had a copy of the poems, and Dr. Blair, 
\\\-\o was on a visit to the professor, had his attention drawn to them, and expressed 
the warmest admiration. Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop on opening the book had been 
electrified by the Cotter'' s Saturday Night, as Gilbert had been before her, and 
immediately sent an express to Burns at Mossgiel with a letter of praise and thanks. 
All this was pleasant enough, but it did not materially mend the situation. Burns 
could not live on praise alone, and accordingly, so soon as he could muster nine 
guineas from the sale of his book, he took a steerage passage in a vessel which was 
expected to sail from Greenock at the end of September. During the month of 
August he seems to have employed himself in collecting subscriptions, and taking 
farewell of his friends. Burns was an enthusiastic Mason, and we can imagine 
that his last meeting with the Tarbolton Lodge would be a thing to remember. It 
7t'as remembered, we learn from Mr. Chambers, by a surviving brother, John Lees. 
John said, " that Burns came in a pair of buckskins, out of which he would always 
pull the other shilling for the other bowl, till it was five in the morning. An 
awfu' night that." Care left outside the door, we can fancy how the wit v.ould 
flash, and the big black eyes glow, on such an occasion ! 

The first edition of his poems being nearly exhausted, his friends encouraged him 
to produce a second forthwith; but, on application, it was found that the Kilmar- 
nock printer declined to undertake the risk, unless the price of the paper was 



w 



BIGGRAPinCAL PREFACE. 



advanced beforehand. This outlay Burns was at this time unable to afford. On 
hearing of the circumstance, his friend Mr. Ballantyne offered to advance the 
money, but urged him to proceed to Edinburgh and publish the second edition 
there. This advice commended itself to Burns's ambition, but for a while he 
remained irresolute. Jean, meanwhile, had been confined of twins, and from one 
of his letters we learn that the "feelings of a father" kept him lingering in 
Ayrshire. News of the success of his poems came in upon him on every side. 
Dr. Lawrie, minister of Loudon, to whose family he had recently paid a visit, had 
forwarded a copy of the poems, with a sketch of the author's life, to Dr. Thomas 
Blacklock, and had received a letter from that gentleman, expressing the warmest 
admiration of the writer's genius, and urging that a second and larger edition 
should at once be proceeded with; adding, that "its intrinsic merits, and the 
exertions of the author's friends, might give the volume a more universal circulation 
than anything of the kind which has been published in my time." This letter, so 
full of encouragement, Dr. Lawrie carried at once to Mr. Gavin Hamilton, and Mr. 
Hamilton lost no time in placing it in Burns's hands. The poems had been favor- 
ably reviewed in the Edinburgh Magazine for October, and this number of the 
jieriodical, so interesting to all its inmates, would, no doubt, find its way to Mossgiel. 
Burns seems to have made up his mind to proceed to Edinburgh about the iSth 
November, a step which was warmly approved by his brother Gilbert; and when 
his resolution was taken, he acted upon it with promptitude. 

He reached Edinburgh on the 28th November, 1786, and took up his residence 
with John Richmond, a Mauchline acquaintance, who occupied a room in Baxter's 
Close, Lawnmarket, for which he paid three shillings a week. Burns for some time 
after his arrival seems to have had no special object; he wandered about the city, 
looking down from the castle on Princes Street; haunting Holyrood Palace and 
Chapel; standing with cloudy eyelid and hands meditatively knit beside the grave 
of Fergusson ; and from the Canongate glancing up with interest on the quaint tene- 
ment in which Allan Ramsay kept his shop, wrote his poems, and curled the wigs 
of a departed generation of Scotsmen. At the time of Burns's arrival, the Old 
Town towered up from Holyrood to the Castle, picturesque, smoke-wreathed; and 
when the darkness came, its climbing tiers of lights and cressets were reflected in 
the yet existing Nor' Loch; and the gray uniform streets and squares of the New 
Town — from which the visitor to-day can look down on low wooded lands, the 
Forth, and Fife beyond — were only in course of erection. The literary society of 
the time was brilliant but exotic, like the French lily or the English rose. For a 
generation and more the Scottish philosophers, historians, and poets had brought 
their epigram from France as they brought their claret, and their humor from Eng- 
land as they brought their parliamentary intelligence. Blair of the Grave was a 
Scottish Dr. Young; WovCi^ o{ Douglas :x. Scottish Otway; Mackenzie a Scottish 
Addison; and Dr. Blair — so far as his criticism was concerned — a sort of Scottish 





A 



BI O GRAPHICAL FREFA CE. 



Di". Johnson. The Scotch brain was genuine enough ; the faculty was native, but 
it poured itself into foreign moulds. The literary grandees wore decorations — 
honestly earned — but no one could discover amongst them the Order of the Thistle. 
These men, too, had done their work, and the burly black-eyed, humorous, pas- 
sionate ploughman came up amongst them, the herald of a new day and a new order 
of things; the first king of a new literary empire, in which he was to be succeeded 
liy Walter Scott, — then a lad of sixteen, engrossing deeds in his father's oflice, 
with the Tweed murmuring in his ears, and Melrose standing in the light of his 
opening imagination — with H<;gg, Gait, Wilson, Lockhart, and the rest, for his 
satraps and lieutenants. 

Ikirns's arrival in Edinburgh was an historical event, far more important in itself, 
and in its issues, than either he or than any other person suspected. 

He soon got to work, however. In Ayrshire he had made the acquaintance of 
Mr. Dalrymple of Orangefield; that gentleman introduced him to his brother-in- 
law, the Earl of Glencairn, then resident in Edinburgh ; and his lordship introduced 
him to William Creech, the leading publisher in the city, at whose shop the wits 
were wont to congregate. Creech undertook the publication of the new edition ; 
and, through the influence of Glencairn, it was arranged that the Caledonian Hunt 
should subscribe for a hundred copies, and that a guinea should be paid for each. 
Meantime, Mr. Mackenzie, in the Lounger, of date 9th December, wrote a glowing 
criticism on the poems, which smoothed a way for them into the politer circles. 
The new edition, dedicated to the Caledonian Hunt, appeared on the 21st April, 
1787, containing a list of subscribers' names extending to more than thirty-eight 
pages. The Hunt, as we have seen, took one hundred copies, and several gentle- 
men and noblemen subscribed liberally — one taking twenty copies, a second forty 
copies, a third forty-two copies. The Scots Colleges in France and Spain are also 
set down as subscribers among individual names. This was splendid success, and 
Burns felt it. He was regarded as a phenomenon; was asked hither and thither, 
frequently from kindness and pure admiration — often, however, to be merely 
talked with and stared at : this he felt, too, and his vengeful spleen, well kept 
under on the whole, corroded his heart like a fierce acid. During- the winter pre- 
ceding the publication of the second edition, he was feted and caressed. He was 
patronized by the Duchess of Gordon. Lord Glencairn was his friend, so also was 
Henry Erskine. He was frequently at Lord Monboddo's, where he admired the 
daughter's beauty more than the father's philosophy; he breakfasted with Dr. 
Blair; he walked in the mornings to the Braid Hills with Professor Dugald Stew- 
art; and he frequently escaped from these lofty circles to the Masonic Lodge, or 
ro the supper-tables of convivial lawyers, where he felt no restraint, where he could 
be wounded by no patronage, and where he flashed and coruscated, and became 
the soul of the revel. Fashionable and lettered saloons were astonished by Burns's 
talk ; but the interior of taverns — and in Edinburgh tavern life was all but tini- 




BIO GRAPIUCAL 'PRE FA CE. 



versal at the time — saw the l:)righter and more constant blaze. This sudden 
change of fortune — so different from his old life in the Irvine flax heckling-shop, 
or working the sour JNIossgiel lands, or the post of a l)ook-keeper in Jamaica, which 
he looked forward to and so narrowly escaped — was not without its giddy and 
exciting pleasures, and for pleasure of every kind Burns had the keenest relish. 
Now and again, too, in the earlier days of his Edinburgh life, when success wore 
its newest gloss, and applause had a novel sweetness, a .spirit of exhilaration escaped 
him, not the less real that it was veiled in a little scornful exaggeration. In 
writing to Mr. Hamilton, he says : " For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of 
Ijecoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis, or John Bunyan; and you may expect 
henceforth to see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events in the Poor 
Robin and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with Black Monday and the battle of 
Bothwell BrMge." In any case, if he did feel flattered by the attention paid him 
by society, he had time to cool and strike a balance in his friend Richmond's gar- 
ret in the Lawnmarket — where he slept, Mr. Lockhart informs us, during the 
whole of that glittering and exciting winter. 

Hitherto, the world had seen but little of Burns personally. It had heard his 
voice as of one singing behind the scenes, and been moved to admiration; and 
when he presented himself in the full blaze of the footlights, he became tne 
cynosure of every eye, and the point on which converged every critical opera-glass. 
Edinburgh and Burns confronted each other. Edinburgh " took stock " of Burns, 
Burns "took stock" of Edinburgh, and it is interesting to note the mutual 
impressions. From all that can be gathered from Dr. Blair, Professors Dugald 
Stewart, Walker, and others, Burns acquitted himself in his new circumstances 
admirably. He never lost head, he never let a word of exultation escape him, his 
deportment was everywhere respectful yet jelf-possessed ; he talked well and freely 
— for he knew he was expected to talk — but he did not engross convert ation. 
His " deferential " address won his way to female favor : and the only two 
breaches of decorum which are recorded of him in society, may be palliated by his 
probable ignorance of his host's feelings and vanities on the first occasion, and on 
the second, by the peculiar provocation he received. Asked in Dr. Blair's house, 
and in Dr. Blair's presence, from which of the city preachers he had derived the 
greatest gratification, it would have been fulsome had Burns said, turning to the 
Doctor, " I consider you, Sir, the greatest pulpit orator I have ever heard." The 
question was a most improper one in the circumstances; and if the company were 
thrown into a state of foolish embarrassment, and the host's feelings wounded by 
Burns giving the palm to his colleague — then the company were simply toadies 
of the sincerer sort, and the host less skilled in the world's ways than Burns, and 
possessed of less natural good-breeding. In the second instance when, in a sen- 
tence mor-i remark-able for force than grace, he extinguished a clergyman who 
abused Gray's Elegy, but who could not quote a line of it correctly, he merely gave 




^ 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



way to a swift and not ungenerous instinct — for -which he was, no doubt, sorrf 
the next moment. He cannot be defended altogether, although even here one can 
hardly help rendering him a sneaking approval. Bad language at a breakfast-table, 
and addressed to a clergyman, is improper — but, on the other hand, no clergyman 
has a right to be a bore at a breakfast-table. Indeed, your critical and blundering 
bore, whether clergyman or no — all the more sedulously, perhaps, if \i^be a clergy- 
man — should keep out of the way of a Burns. Evil is certain to befall him if he 
do not. It is pretty evident, however, from the records left, that Dr. Blair, iJugald 
Stewart, and others, did not really know Burns — did not, in fact, take much pains 
to know him. They never met him on frank, cordial, and brotherly terms. They 
looked on him curiously, as one looks on a strange insect, through a microscope. 
From their learned heights they regarded him as on the plain beneath. They 
were ever ready with advice, and counselled him to stand armed at points where 
no danger could possibly appear. Of all the good things in the world, advice is 
practically the least useful. If a man is fool enough to need advice, the chances 
are he will be fool enough to resent it when given, or neglect it when the critical 
moment arrives. The Edinburgh literati did not quite well know what to make of 
Burns. He was a new thing under the sun, and they could not fall back on pre- 
cedent. They patronized him kindly, heartil)', for the most part — but still it was 
patronage. And it has come about that, in the lapse of seventy years, the relations 
of the parties have been quite reversed — as in dissolving views, the image ofTiurns 
has come out in bolder relief and brighter colors, while his patrons have lost 
outline, have dwindled, and become shadowy. Dr. Blair and Lord Monboddo 
will be remembered mainly by the circumstance that the one invited Burns to his 
evening entertainments, and the other to his breakfasts. Burns has kept that 
whole literary generation from oblivion, and from oblivion he will keep it yet 
awhile. 

On the other hand, it is quite evident, that although Burns, during that brilliant 
winter, masked himself skilfully, he bore an inward smart. He felt that he was 
regarded as meteoric, a wonder; that he did not fit into existing orders of things, 
and that in Edinburgh he had no familiar and received status. Consequently, he 
was never sure of his ground; and while, for the most part, careful to offend no 
one, he was passionately jealous of condescension and suspicious of personal affront. 
The men amongst whom he mingled had their positions in the world, and in these 
positions they had the ease of use and wont. Their couches were made soft by 
the down of customariness. They had all the sociai proprieties and traditions at 
their backs. From the past, they flowered out socially and professionally. With 
Burns everything was diherent. He had in Edinburgh, so to speak, neither father 
nor mother. He had neither predecessor nor antecedent. He could roll in no 
groove made smooth by custom; and hence it is, when in bitter mood, we iind 
him making such -jxtravagant claims for genius against dull rich men, or duR well 



7^= 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



born men, ox semi-dull men, who had been successful in the professions. He knew 
that genius was his sole claim to the notice of the brilliant personages he met 
night after night; that but for it he was a small Ayrshire farmer, whom not one of 
those people would invite to their tables, or bid " Good day " to, if they met him 
on a country road. It was admirable in Scott, to waive, as he continually did, all 
claim to special regard on account of his genius, but it was easy for Scott to do 
this. Scott would have dined well every day of his life, he would have lived with 
cultivated and refined people, and would have enjoyed a fair share of social dis- 
tinction, although he had never written Marinion or Ivaiihoe. But Burns's sole 
title to notice -was genius — take that from him, he was instantly denuded of his 
singing robes, and left in the hodden gray of the farmer, with a splash of mud on 
his top-boots. In his commonplace book — a very pool of Marah — which he 
kept at Edinburgh, there is an entry which brings all this out in a clear light. 

" There are few of the sore evils under the sun give me more uneasiness and 
chagrin than the comparison how a man of genius, nay, of avowed worth, is 
received everywhere, with the reception which a mere ordinary character, decorated 
with the trappings and futile distinctions of fortune, meets. Imagine a man of 
abilities, his heart glowing with honest pride, conscious that men are born equal, 
still giving honor to whom honor is due ; he meets at a great man's table a Squire 
Something, or a Sir Somebody; he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the 
bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good wishes, beyond perhaps any one at 
table; yet how will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose abilities would scarcely 
have made an eightpentiy tailor, and whose heart is not worth three farthings, 
meet with attention and notice, that are withheld from the son of genius and 
poverty ! 

" The noble Glencairn has wounded me to the soul here, because I dearly esteem, 
respect, and love him. He showed so much attention, engrossing attention, one 
day, to the only blockhead at table (the whole company consisted of his lord- 
ship, dunder-pate, and myself), that I was within half a point of throwing down my 
gage of contemptuous defiance; but he shook my hand, and looked so benevo- 
lently good at parting. God bless him ! though I should never see him more I 
shall love him until my dying day ! I am pleased to think I am so capable of the 
throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient in some other virtues. 

" With Dr. Blair I am more at my ease. I never respect him with humble 
veneration; but when he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or, still more, 
when he descends from his pinnacle, and meets me on equal ground in conver- 
sation, my heart overflows with what is called liking. When he neglects me for 
the mere carcase of greatness, or when his eye measures the difference of our 
points of elevation, I say to myself, with scarcely any emotion, what do I care for 
him, or his pomp either? " 

A man like Burns, living at a period when literature had not to any extent 




BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



become a profession, could not find his place amongst the recognized forces of the 
world — was doomed forever to be an outsider — and therein lay the tragedy of his 
life. He was continually making comparisons between his own evil fortune and 
the good fortune of others. Proud, suspicious, swift to take offence, when his 
amour-propre was wounded, he was apt to salve it in the company of revellers 
whom he could meet on equal terms, and in whose society he could take out his 
revenge in sarcasm. As regards mere brain, he does not seem to have entertained 
any remarkable respect for the Edinburgh men of letters. He considered he had 
met as much intellectual capacity — - unpolished and in the rough — in Tarbolton 
debating societies, Mauchline masonic meetings, and at the tables of the writers of 
Kilmarnock and Ayr. He admitted, however, that his residence in Edinburgh 
had brought him in contact with something new — a refined and accomplished 
woman. The admission is important, and meeting it one fancies for a moment that 
one has caught some sort of explanation of his future life. What might have been 
the result had Burns secured a career in which his fancy and intellect could have 
exercised themselves, and a wife, who to affection added refinement and accom- 
plishment, we may surmise, but cannot tell. A career he never secured; and on 
his return to Ayrshire, in passionate blindness, he forged chains for himself which 
he could not break — which it w ould have been criminal in him to have attempted 
to break. 

From Burns's correspondence while in Edinburgh we can see in what way he 
regarded his own position and prospects. He admitted that applause was pleasant; 
he knew that as a poet he possessed some merit, but he constantly expressed his 
comdction that much of his success arose from the novelty of a poet appearing in 
his rank of life; and he congratulates himself on the circumstances that — let lit- 
erary reputation wax or wane — he had " an independence at the plough-tail " to 
fall back upon. He foresaw from the beginning that Edinburgh could be nothing 
more than a striking episode in his life, and that he was fated to return to the rural 
shades. Early in the year he had some conversation with Mr. Patrick Miller, 
relative to his becoming a tenant on that gentleman's estate at Dalswinton, and 
had promised to run down to Dumfriesshire and look at the lands some time in 
the following Alay. That Mr. Miller was anxious to serve Burns, seems to have 
been generally known in Edinburgh; for in Dr. Blair's letter, dated on 4th May, 
1787, in answer to a note vi'ritten by Burns on the previous day, intimating that he 
was about to leave town, the Doctor supposes that he is " going down to Dalswin- 
ton to look at some of Mr. Miller's farms." Before his return. Burns (//t/ intend to 
look at these farms, but at the moment farming was not the principal business in 
hand. He, in company with his young friend Ainslie, was on the wing for the 
south of Scotland — a district which was calling him with a hundred voices of tra- 
dition and Ijallad. On the day before starting, he sent Mr. Johnson, editor of the 
Scot's Musical Musewn, a cordial letter, for he had entered with enthusiasm into 




BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



that gentleman's work, and already written for it one or two songs — preliminary 
drops of the plenteous summer-shower which has kept so many secret places of 
the heart fresh and green. 

The companions left Edinburgh on horseback on 5th May. They visited 
Dunse, Coldstream, Kelso, Jedburgh, ]Mehose, Drylmrgh, and Yarrow — Burns 
scattering jokes and epigrams all the way. About the middle of the month iVinslie 
returned to Edinburgh, and Burns then crossed into England, saw Ilenham and 
Newcastle, and returned home by Carlisle and Dumfries. From Dumfries he 
went to Dalswinton, looked over the estate, but did not seem much enamored of 
its condition. lie, however, arranged to meet Mr. xvliller in August. He then 
came by Sanquhar to Mauchline, and dropped in upon his family unannounced. 
His meeting with these reticent hearts must be left to imagination. He went out 
from them obscure; he returned to them illustrious, with a nimbus around his 
head. v\t home he renewed acquaintanceshiji with old friends, and found that 
Mr. Armour, who had treated him coldly in the day of his poverty and obscurity, 
was now inclined to regard him with a favorable eye — a circumstance which seems 
to have kindled Burns into unreasonable rage. " If anything," he writes to his 
correspondent Smith, " had been wanting to disgust me completely with the Armour 
family, their mean, servile compliance would have done it." The proud spirit 
which rankled in Edinburgh seems to have rankled no less bitterly in Ayrshire. 
A few days after he wrote to Mr. William Nicol, master of the High School, 
Edinburgh — then and afterwards one of his chiefe.jt friends : " I never, my 
friends, thought mankind very capable of anything generous; but the stateliness of 
the patricians in Edinburgh, and the civility of my plebeian brethren (who per- 
haps formerly eyed me askance) since I returned home, have nearly put me out of 
conceit altogether with my species. I have bought a pocket Milton, «hich I 
carry perpetually about with me, in order to study the sentiments, the dauntless 
magnanimity, the intrepid, unyielding independence, the desperate daring, and 
noble defiance of hardship, in that great personage, Satan." At this precise 
period, it is somewhat hard to understand whence came the bitterness which wells 
up in almost every letter which Burns wrote. He was famous, he was even com- 
paratively rich, but he had an eye which, constitutionally, regarded the seamy side 
of things. Probably, in no possible combination of fortunate circumstances could 
Burns have been a contented and happy man. He had Ulysses' " hungry heart," 
which could be satisfied with no shore, however green and pleasant, which must 
needs sail beyond the sunset. While residing at Mauchline, he accidentally met 
Jean, and affectionate intimacy was renewed, as if no anger or bitterness had 
ever estranged them. 

Towards the end of June he went alone to the West Highlands, without any 
apparent motive, if not drawn by the memory of INIary Campbell. Of his move- 
nents in this trip we have no very precise information. At Inverary, where he 




BIOGKAPIIIL \i /. PREFA CJ-.. 



could find accommodation neither in Castle nor Inn, he left an epigram which has 
become famous. In a letter to Mr. J. Smith, — a fair specimen of his more familiar 
epistolary style, — dated 30th June, we have some slight information respecting his 
doings, and a description of certain " high jinks " in the north, in which he was 
an actor. Although the letter is dated as above, it does not state at what place it 
was written — Burns, perhaps, wishing to keep his secret. 

" On our return, at a highland gentleman's hospitable mansion, we fell in with a 
merry party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three in the morning. Our 
dancing was none of the P'rench or English insipid formal movements; the ladies 
sung Scotch songs like angels, at intervals; then we flew at ' Bab at the Bowster,' 
' Tullochgorum,' ' Loch Erroch Side,' &c., like midges sporting in the mottie sun, 
or crows prognosticating a storm on a hairst day. When the dear lassies left us, 
we ranged round the bowl, to the good-fellow hour of six; except a few minutes 
that we went out to pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the 
towering top of Ben Lomond. We all kneeled; our worthy landlord's son held 
the bowl, each man a full glass in his hand; and 1, as priest, repeated some rhym- 
ing nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymer's prophecies, I suppose. After a small 
refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the day on Loch Lomond 
pnd reached Dunbarton in the evening. We dined at another good fellow's house, 
and consequently pushed the bottle ; when we went out to mount our horses, we 
found ourselves ' Xo vera fou, but gaylie yet.' My two friends and I rode 
soberly down the Loch side, till by came a Highlandman at the gallop, on a 
tolerably good horse, but which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. 
We scorned to be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we started, whip and spur. 
My companions though seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly astern; but my old 
mare Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinate family, strained past the Highlandman, 
in spite of all his efforts with the hair halter. Just ^s I was passing him, Donald 
wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me, to mar my progress, when down came 
his horse, and threw his breekless rider in a dipt hedge ; and down came Jenny 
Geddes over all, and my bardship between her and the Highlandman's horse. Jenny 
(leddes trode over me with such cautious reverence, that matters were not so bad 
as might have been expected ; so I came off with a few cuts and 'bruises, and a 
thorough resolution to be a pattern of sobriety for the future. 

" I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. I am, 
just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless idle fellow. However, 
I shall somewhere have a farm soon." 

Whatever motive may have induced Burns to visit the West Highlands, he 
returned to Mossgiel somewhat shaken by the escapade related above. During 
the ensuing month he wrote his autobiographical sketch to Dr. Moore, and on the 
7th August he returned to Edinburgh to settle business matters with his publisher, 
and to arrange other excursions through districts of the country in which he had a 
l)oetic interest. 



7^ . 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



Near the close of August, Burns and Nicol started on a northern tour. They 
went by Falkirk and Stirling, visited the field of Bannockburn, and on their return 
to Stirling, Burns, with a diamond which he had recently purchased — the most 
unfortunate of all his investments, as it turned out — scribbled certain perilous 
verses on a window-pane of the inn. They then struck into Perthshire, admired 
the Falls of Moness, where Buins wrote The Birks of Aberfeldy ; visited Blair, 
the seat of the Duke of Athole, where they were hospitably entertained, and 
wliere Burns met his future patron, Mr. Graham of Fintry, and narrowly missed 
meeting Mr. Dundas — a piece of ill-fortune which his biographers agree in 
lamenting. The travellers then proceeded to Inverness, went to CuUoden, spent 
some time at the ruined cathedral at Elgin; crossed the Spey, and visited che 
Duke of Gordon — which visit was cut short by an ebullition of wounded pride on 
the part of Nicol. From Castle Gordon they came by Banff to Aberdeen ; Burns 
then crossed into Kincardineshire — of which county his father was a native — 
and spent some time in hunting up his relations there. He then went to Mon- 
trose, where he met his cousin, Mr. James Burness, and returned to Edinburgh by 
Perth and Dundee. 

In the beginning of October, according to Mr. Chambers, — for there seems to 
be a little obscurity as to date, — Burns, accompanied by Dr. Adair, set out on a 
visit to Sir William Murray of Ochtertyre, and passing through Stirling, he broke 
the pane in the inn on which he had inscribed the treasonable lines. Unhappily, 
However, he could not by this means put them out of existence, as they had been 
widely copied and circulated, and were alive in many memories. At Ochtertyre he 
spent one or two pleasant days; and while in the neighborhood he took the 
opportunity of visiting Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan, who was in possession of the 
helmet and sword of the Bruce, and with the latter she conferred on the poet and 
his guide the honor of knighthood, remarking as she did so, that she had a better 
right to give the title than some people. He returned to Edinburgh by Kinross 
ana Queensferry, and while at Dunfermhne some circumstances took place, trivial 
in themselves, but important as exhibiting what rapid changes took place in the 
weather of the poet's mind. 

" At Dunfermline," says Dr. Adair, " we visited the ruined abbey and the abbey 
hurch, now consecrated to Presbyterian worship. Here I mounted the cuify stool, 
or stool of repentance, assuming the character of a penitent for fornication, while 
Burns from the pulpit addressed to me a ridiculous reproof and exhortation, 
parodied from that which had been delivered to himself in Ayrshire, where he had, 
as he assured me, once been one of seven who mounted the seat of shame together. 
" In the churchyard two broad flagstones marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for 
whose memory Burns had more than common veneration. He knelt and kissed 
the sto^e with sacred fervor, and heartily execrated the worse than Gothic neglect 
of the first of Scottish heroes." 




?fe 



jn; 



^ 



B 70 GRAPHICAL PRE FA CE. 



Burns was now resident in St. James's Square, in the house of William Cruick- 
shank, who was, like Xicol, connected with the Edinl^urgh High School. His 
chief business was the arrangement of publishing matters with Creech, and he was 
anxious to come to some definite conclusion with Mr. Miller regarding a farm at 
Dalswinton. On his return from Ochtertyre he wrote that gentleman in practical 
terms enough : " I want to be a farmer in a small farm, about a plough-gang, in a 
pleasant country, under the auspices of a good landlord. I have no foolish notion 
of being a tenant on easier terms than another. To find a farm where one can live 
at all is not easy. I only mean living soberly, like an old style farmer, and joining 
personal industry. The banks of the Nith are as sweet poetic ground as any I ever 
saw; and besides, sir, 'tis but justice to the feelings of my own heart, and the 
opinion of my best friends, to say that I would \\ ish to call you landlord sooner 
than any landed gentleman I know. These are my views and wishes ; and in 
whatever way you think best to lay out your farms, I shall be happy to rent one 
of them. I shall certainly be able to ride to .Dalswinton about the middle of next 
week." Burns, however, did not go to Dumfriesshire so early as he expected. 
There was dilatoriness on Creech's part regarding settlements as to the poems; 
there was perhaps dilatoriness on Burns's part regarding the farm : at all events, 
autumn had glided into winter, and he remained in Edinljurgh without having 
come to a conclusion with either. The winter, however, was destined to open one 
of the strangest chapters in his strange story. At this time he made the acquaint- 
ance of Mrs. M'Lehose, the Clarir.da of so many impassioned letters. This lady, 
who was possessed of no common beauty and intelligence, had been deserted by 
her husband, and was bringing up her children in somewhat narrow circumstances. 
They met at tea in the house of a common friend, and were pleased with each 
other's conversation. The second night after, Burns was to have drunk tea by 
invitation at the house of Mrs. M'Lehose, but having been upset the previous 
evening by a drunken coachman, and brought home with a knee severely bruised, 
he was obliged to forego that pleasure. He wrote the lady, giving the details of 
the accident, and expressing regret that he was unable to leave his room. The 
lady, who was of a temperament generous and impulsive, replied at once, giving 
utterance to her regret, and making Burns a formal proffer of her sympathy and 
friendship. Burns was enraptured, and returned an answer after the following 
fashion : — 

" I stretch a point, indeed, my dearest madam, when I answer yoiu card on the 
rack of my present agony. Your friendship, madam ! By heavens ! I was never 
proud before. ... I swear solemnly (in all the terror of my former oath) to 
remember you in all the pride and warmth of friendship until — I cease to be ! 

"To-morrow, and every day till I see you, you shall hear from me. 

" Farewell ! May you enjoy a better night's repose than I am likely to have." 

The correspondence, so rapturously opened, proceeded quite as rapturously. !•: 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



was arranged that in the future Burns should sign himself Sylvaiider, and the lady 
Clarinda. Each day gave birth to its epistle. Poeins were interchanged. Sighs 
were wafted from .St. James's Square to the Potterow. Clarinda was a " gloriously 
amiable fine woman," and Sylvander was her "devoted slave." Clarinda chid 
Sylvander tenderly for the warmth of his expressions. Sylvander was thrown 
into despair by the rebuke, but protested that he was not to blame. Who could 
behold her superior charms, her fine intelligence, and not love? who could love 
and be silent? Clarinda had strong Calvinistic leanings, and .Sylvander, who could 
not pardon these things in Ayrshire clergymen, and was accustomed to call them 
by quite other names, was " delighted by her honest enthusiasm for religion." 
Clarinda was to be passing on a certain day through the square in which Sylvan- 
der lived, and promised to favor him with a nod, should she be so fortunate as to 
see him at his window; and wrote sorrowing, the day after, that she had been 
unable to discover his window. Sylvander was inconsolable. Not able to discover 
his window ! He could almost have thrown himself over it for very vexation. His 
peace is spoiled for the day. He is sure the soul is capable of disease, for his has 
convulsed itself into an inflammatory fever, and so on. During this period of let- 
ter-writing. Burns and Mrs. M'Lehose had met several times in her own house, 
and on these occasions he had opportunities of making her aware of his dismal 
prospects. The results of his renewed intercourse with Jean on his return to Ayr- 
shire were now becoming apparent; this was communicated to her along with other 
matters, and ]\Irs. M'Lehose was all forgiveness ■ — tempered with rebuke, and a 
desire for a more Calvinistic way of thinking on his part on religious subjects. 
That the affection of Burns for the lady was rooted in anything deeper than fancy, 
and a natural delight in intelligence and a pleasing manner, may be doubted. His 
Clarinda letters are artificial, and one suspects the rhetorician in the swelling sen- 
tences and the exaggerated sentiment. With regard to Mrs. M'Lehose there can 
be no mistake. Her letters are far superior to Burns's, being simple, natural, and 
with apathetic cadence in some portions which has not yet lost the power to affect. 
She loved Burns, and hoped, if he would but wait till existing ties were broken, 
to be united to him. But Burns could not wait, the correspondence drooped, and 
a year saw all passion 




" Die away, 
And fade into the light of common day " ; 



the common day of Jean Armour, Ellisland, and the Excise. 

When Burns at this period, confined to his room by an angry limb, in the mid- 
dle of his Clarinda correspondence, and tortured with suspicions of Creech's insol- 
vency — of which some ugly rumors had reached him — was made aware that Jean 
was about to become again a mother, and that her father had thrust her from his 
house in anger, he was perhaps more purely wretched than at any other period of 





BIO GRArUlL \4 L PREFA CE. 



his life. In his own breast there was a passionate tumult and remorse. Look 
where he would, no blue spot was to be discovered in the entire sky of his pros- 
pects. He had felt the sweetness of applause : he was now to experience the 
bitterness of the after-taste. He was a "lion"' whose season had passed. Hih 
great friends -seemed unwilling or unable to procure him a post. He had been 
torn from his old modes of life, and in the new order of things which surrounded 
him he could find nothing permanent, nothing that would cohere. Time was 
passing; his life was purposeless; he was doing nothing, effecting nothing; he 
was flapping in the wind like an unbraced sail. .Vt this juncture he resolved to 
bring matters to a conclusion, after one fashion or another. In his letters, the old 
scheme of emigration to the West Indies turns up bitterly for a moment. Then 
he bethought himself of a post in the Excise, which had always been a dream of 
his, and the possibility of his obtaining which had been discussed by his Ayrshire 
friends before he became famous. If such a position could be secured it would 
be at least something, something in itself, something to fall back upon should his 
farming schemes prove abortive. He accordingly wrote the Earl of Glencairn, 
soliciting his patronage, but the application appears to have been followed by no 
result. Mr. Graham, of Fintry, whose acquaintance Burns had made at Blair, the 
seat of the Duke of Athole, having heard of his wish, through the kind offices of 
Mr. Alexander Wood, the surgeon who attended him, immediately placed his 
name on the list of expectant officers. Having arranged his Excise business so 
far, he left Edinburgh to have another look at Mr. Miller's farms, and to come to 
an agreement, if possible. He took a friend with him on whose sagacity and 
business skill he could confide; and after a deliberate inspection of the lands, he 
was better satisfied than he had been on a former occasion, and at once made an 
offer to Mr. Miller for the farm at Ellisland, which was accepted. On his return 
to Edinburgh he announced his resolution to his friend Miss Chalmers : 

"Yesternight I completed a bargain with Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, for the farm 
of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above Dumfries. 
I begin at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, &c., and Heaven be my help ! 
for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind into the routine of business. I 
have discharged all the army of my former pursuits, fancies, and pleasures — a 
motley host ! and have literally and strictly retained only the ideas of a few friends, 
which I have incorporated into a life-guard." 

Burns's business at this time in Edinburgh related to his settlement with Creech, 
which, after many delays, was about to take place. In all, he appears to have 
received between ;^400 and ;i^500, and out of this sum he advanced £ i8o to hiv 
brother Gilbert, who was struggling manfully at Mossgiel. On the 24th March, 
with much business on hand, he left Edinburgh for Ayrshire, where he married 
Jean Armour — snapping thereby the chief link which bound him to the metropolis. 
This union, putting moral considerations out of the question altogether, was the 




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BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



most prudent course open to him, and it repaired the fabric of self-respect which 
had been, to some extent at least, broken down. For a time we hear nothing 
the "wandering stabs of remorse," and his letters breathe a quite unusual content- 
edness. He had made some little self-sacrifice, and he tasted the happiness which 
always arises from the consciousness of self-sacrifice. Besides, he had loved the 
girl, perhaps loved her all through, although the constant light of affection had, to 
himself as well as to others, been obscured by the glare of fiercer and more tran- 
sitory fires; and if so — the sacrifice not so great as he supposed it to be — he was 
plainly a gainer both ways. Burns was placed at this time in difficult circum- 
stances, and he simply made the best of them. He could build only with the 
materials within reach. There was nothing left but to begin life again as a farmer, 
and it behoved him to wear russet on heart as well as on limb. In the heyday 
of his Edinburgh success he foresaw the probability of his return to the rural shades, 
and to these shades he had now returned — but he returned with reputation, ex- 
perience, an unreproving conscience, some little money in hand, and with solider 
prospects of happiness than had ever yet fallen to his lot. Happiness he did taste 
for a few months, — and then out of the future came the long shadows of disaster, 
fated not to pass away, but to gather deeper and darker over a grave which was 
dug too early, — and yet too late. 

When Burns entered into possession of Ellisland, at Whitsunday, 1788, he left 
his wife at Mauchline till the new dwelling-house should be erected. In the mean- 
time he was sufficiently busy; he had to superintend masons and carpenters, as 
well as look after more immediate farm matters. Besides, in order to qualify him- 
self for holding his Excise Commission, he had to give attendance at Ayr for six 
weeks on the duties of his new profession. These occupations, together with 
occasional visits to his wife and family, kept him fully occupied. Hope had sprung 
up in his bosom like a Jonah's gourd, and while the greenness lasted he was happy 
enough. During his solitary life at Ellisland, he wrote two or three of his finest 
songs, each of them in praise of Jean, and each giving evidence that his heart was 
at rest. During this time, too, a somewhat extensive correspondence was kept up, 
and activity and hopefulness — only occasionally dashed by accesses of his consti- 
tutional melancholy — radiate through it all. As was natural, his letters relate, for 
the most part, to his marriage and his new prospects. As respects his marriage, he 
takes abundant care to make known that, acting as he had done, he had acted 
prudently; that he had secured an admirable wife, and that in his new relationship 
he was entirely satisfied. If any doubt should exist as to Burns's satisfaction, it 
can arise only from his somewhat too frequent protestation of it. He takes care to 
niform his correspondents that he has actually married Jean, that he would have 
been a scoundrel had he declined to marry her, and that she possessed the sweetest 
temper and the handsomest figure in the country. The truth is, that, in the matter 
of matrimony, he could not very well help himself. He was aware that the match 




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BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



was far from a brilliant one, and as he really loved his wife, he had to argue down 
!hat feeling in his own heart; he was aware that his correspondents did not con- 
sider it brilliant, and he had also to argue down that feeling in theirs. Meanwhile, 
the house at Ellisland was getting finished! In the first week of December he 
brought home his wife, and in the pride of his heart he threw off a saucy little song, 

" I hae a wife o' my ain," 

which quivers through every syllable of it with a homely and assured delight that 
laughs at all mischance. Mrs. Burns brought her children and a whole establisli- 
ment of servants. The house was small, its accommodation was limited, and Burns 
sat at meals with his domestics, and on Sunday evenings, after the good old Scot- 
tish fashion, he duly catechized them. He has himself left on record that this was 
the happiest portion of his life. He had friends, with whom he maintained an 
intimate correspondence; he had a wife who loved him; his passionate and way- 
ward heart was at rest in its own happiness; he could see the grain yellowing in 
his own fields ; he had the Excise Commission in his pocket on which he could fall 
back if anything went wrong; and on the red scaur above the river, he could stride 
about, giving audience to incommunicable thought, while the Nith was hoarse with 
flood, and the moon was wading through clouds overhead. When should he 
have been happy, if not now? 

Burns's farming operations during the second year of his occupancy of Ellisland 
were not successful, and in the more unrestrained letters of the period we find him 
complaining of his hard fate in being obliged to make one guinea do the work of 
five. As the expense of his family was now rapidly increasing, he requested to be 
allowed to enter at once on his duties as officer of Excise. That in his new mode 
of life he would encounter unpleasantnesses he knew, and was prepared for them; 
but he expected that ISIrs. Burns would be able to manage the farm for the most 
part, — in any case his salary as Exciseman would be a welcome addition to his 
means. He was appointed on application, he entered zealously on his duties, and 
as his district extended over ten parishes, he was forced to ride about two hundred 
miles per week. This work, taken in conjunction with labor at Ellisland, which, 
constantly getting into arrear, demanded fierce exertion at intervals, was too much 
for even his iron frame. He had attacks of illness, and his constitutional hypo- 
chondria ruled him with a darker sceptre than ever. It appears evident from his 
letters that he meant to make his fight at Ellisland, and that he considered the 
Excise as a second line of defence on which he could fall back in the e\ ent of 
defeat. At Ellisland he toas defeated, and on his second line of defence he fell 
back grimly enough. An Excise officer is not a popular character in country dis- 
tricts where smugglers abound; and whatever degree of odium might attach to his 
new profession, Burns was certain to feel more keenly than most. One can see 
that in his new relation his haughty spirit was ill at ease; that he suspected a sort 



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BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



of meanness in himself; and that the thought that he had in any way stooped or 
condescended was gall and wormwood. His bitterness on this matter escapes in 
various and characteristic ways. At one time he treats the matter with imperial 
disdain, declaring that he does not intend " to seek honor from his profession " ; 
at another time in a set of impromptu verses he mocks at his occupation and him- 
self, illuminating the whole business with a flame of spleenful mirth. But the step 
he had taken was unquestionably a prudent one, and if it miscarried, it miscarried 
from foreign causes. From every account which survives, he was an excellent and 
zealous officer, and into his work he carried eyes which were at once sharp and 
kindly. It was not in his nature to be harsh or tyrannical. A word revealed 
secrets to him, a glance let him into the bearings of a case; and while he saw that 
the interests of Government did not materially suffer, his good nature and kind- 
heartedness were always at hand to make matters as pleasant as possible. One or 
two of these Excise anecdotes are amongst the pleasantest remembrances we have 
of Burns. His professional prospects were on the whole far from despicable. On 
his farm he was losing money, health, and hope; but in the Excise he looked 
forward to advancement, — an Inspectorship or Supervisorship being regarded as 
within his reach. 

If Ellisland had only been profitable, Burns might have been considered a fortu- 
nate man. For his own wants and for those of his family the cottage which he had 
built sufficed. The scenery around him was beautiful. He was on good terms 
with the neighboring proprietors, and his reputation attracted visitors from many 
quarters. He procured books from Edinburgh and from the circulating hbrary 
v/hich — with that regard for mental means and appliances which seems to have 
been u characteristic of his race — he had established in the vicinity. Every other 
day letters and newspapers were arriving at Ellisland, connecting him with distant 
places and events; and the stranger who dropped in upon him from London or 
Edinburgh, or even from places more remote, brought talk, ideas, observations on 
this thing and the other more or less valuable, stimulus, excitement, — all tending 
to enrich intellectual life. And during this time he was no mental sluggard. He 
worked his brain as he worked his servants on the acres at Ellisland, or his horse 
as ho rode on the scent of a smuggler through the Nithsdale moors. He carried 
on a multifarious correspondence, he \\rote his letters carefully — only a little too 
carefully sometimes, for he is occasionally modish and over-dressed. Every other 
week he sent a packet of songs to Johnson for his Museum, which had now reached 
the third volume. He interested himself in local politics, and scribbled election- 
eering ballads. One evening, when the past — heavy with unshed tears — lay near 
his heart, he composed the strain, To Mary in Heaven ; and in the course of one 
summer day, in a perfect riot and whirlwind of ecstasy, every faculty and power in 
full blossom, he dashed off Tain 0' Shunter, — immortal, unapproachable ! If Ellis- 
_^ land had but paid. Burns might have been happy as farmer and poet, — or as 
J L Exciseman, farmer, and poet, — for the characters were by no means incompatible. 



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BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



As but for his Excise salary Burns must have succumbed under farming difficul- 
ties, he was now anxious to be quit of Ellisland, and to coiifine himself entirely to 
his official duties; and it so happened that Mr. Miller was willing to release him of 
the portion of the lease which was yet to run, preparatory to a linal sale of thac 
uart of the lands. The Ellisland crops were sold, and the sale was made the 
occasion of a drunken orgie. On the 1st September, Burns writes to Mr. Thomas 
Sloan : 

" I sold my crop on this day se'en-night, and sold it very well. A guinea an 
acre on an average above value. But such a scene of drunkenness was hardly 
ever seen in this country. After the roup was over about thirty people engaged in 
a battle, every man for his own hand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was 
the scene much better in the house. No fighting indeed, bu: the folks lying drunk 
on the floor, and decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by attending on them 
that they could not stand. Ycu will easily guess how I enjoyed the scene, as I 
was no farther over than you used to see me." 

In November Ellisland became the property of Mr. Morine, and r)urns imme- 
diately sold his farm stock and implements, — relinquishing for ever the plough-tail, 
at which he so often boasted that he had an independence, — and removed with his 
wife and children to a small house in the Wee Vennel of Dumfries. On his 
removal he was appointed to an Excise division, which improved his salary. His 
income was now £ 70 per annum. 

It is at Dumfries that Burns's story first becomes really tragical. He had 
divorced himself from country scenery and the on-goings of rural life, which, up till 
now, formed an appropriate background for our ideas of him. Instead of the 
knowes and meadows of Mossgiel_ and Ellisland, with their lovely sunrises and 
twilights, we have to connect him with the streets, the gossip, and the dissipation of 
a third-rate Scottish town. He was no longer a farmer — he was a simple ganger, 
hoping to obtain a supervisorship. Proud as was his spirit, he was dependent on 
great friends ; and he condescended, on various occasions, to write epistles in prose 
and verse which fawned on a patron's hand. Natural inspiration and picturesque- 
ness were taken out of his life. He turned down no more daisies, the horned moon 
hung no longer in the window-pane of the ale-house in which he drank ; the com- 
position of theatrical prologues engaged his attention rather than the composition 
of poems of rustic life. He was never rich, but in Dumfries his poverty for the 
first time wears an aspect of painfulness. For the first time we hear of monetary 
difficulties, of obligations which he cannot conveniently meet, of debt. It was here, 
too, that certain weaknesses, which had lately grown upon him, attracted public 
notice. In Dumfries, as in Edinburgh at that time, there was a good deal of tavern- 
life, and much hard drinking at dinner and supper parties, and the like. Burns 
was famous, — he had lived in dukes' houses, he corresponded with celebrated men, 
he could talk brilliantly, he had wit for every crdl as other men had spare silver, 






BIO GRAPHICAL PREFA CE. 



he could repeat his last poem or epigram, — and as a consequence his society was 
in great request. It was something to have dined or supped in the company of 
Burns, — if one was not the rose, it was at least something to have been near the 
rose, — and his host was proud of him, as he was proud of his haunch of venison, 
his claret, his silver epergne. Burns's good things circulated with the wine ; his 
wit gave a new relish to the fruit, and kindled an unwonted splendor in the brains 
of his listeners. Then strangers, passing through Dumfries, were naturally anxious 
to see the poet whose reputation had travelled so far. They invited him to the 
nms in which they were living, Burns consented, frequently the revel was loud and 
late, and when he rose, — after the sun sometimes, — he paid his share of the 
lawing with " a slice of his constitution." In his younger days he had been sub- 
jected to public rebuke by the Rev. Mr. Auld; but since his marriage he seems lO 
have been irreproachable in the matter of conjugal fidelity. During, however, an 
unfortunate absence of his wife in Ayrshire he contracted a discreditable liaison, 
which resulted in the birth of a daughter. Mrs. Burns seems neither to have 
reproached nor complained; she adopted the child, and brought it up in the same 
cradle with her own infant. If for his fault he had been subjected to domestic 
annoyance, he might have taken refuge in pride, and haughtily repelled reproaches; 
but his wife's forgiveness allowed him to brood — and with what bitterness we can 
guess — over his misconduct. Doubtless the evil in his career in Dumfries has 
been exaggerated. Burns's position was full of peril, — he was subjected to tempta- 
tions which did not come in the way of ordinary men; and if he drank hard, it was 
in an age when hard drinking was fashionable. If he sinned in this respect, he 
sinned in company with English prime ministers, Scotch Lords of Session, grave 
dignitaries of the Church in both countries, and with thousands of ordinary block- 
heads who went to their graves in the odor of sanctity, and whose epitaphs are a 
catalogue of all the virtues. Burns was a man set apart; he was observed, he was 
talked about; and if he erred, it was like erring in the market-place. In any 
other inhabitant of Dumfries, misdemeanors such as Burns's would hardly have 
provoked reaiiark; what would have been unnoticed on the hodden gray of the 
farmer became a stain on the singing robe of the poet. That Burns should have 
led an unworthy life is to be deplored, but the truth '= — and herein Hes explana- 
tion, palliation perhaps — • that in Dumfries he was somewhat a-weary of the sun. 
Not seldom he was desperate and at bay. He was neither in harmony with him- 
self nor with the world. He had enjoyed one burst of brilliant success, and in the 
light of that success his life before and after looked darker than it actually was. 
The hope deferred of a supervisorship made his heart sick. He had succeeded 
as a poet, but in everything else failure had dogged his steps; and out of that 
poetical success no permanent benefit had resulted, or seemed now in his need 
likely to result. In the east were the colors of the dawn, but the sun would not 
arise. His letters at this time breathe an almost uniform mood of exasperation and 



^" 



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BIOCRAPHICAL PREFACE. 




misery, and it is hard for a miserable man to be a good one. He is tempted to 
make ntrange alliances, and to pay a high price for forgetfulness. And over 
Burns's head at this time was suspended one other black cloud, which, although 
it only burst in part, made the remainder of his life darker with its shadow. 

Chief amongst Burns's friends during the early portion of his residence at Dum- 
fries were Mr. and Mrs. Riddel. They were in good circumstances, possessing a 
small estate in the neighborhood of the town, and Burns was frequently their guest. 
Mrs. Jliddel was young and pretty, and distinguished by literary taste and accom- 
plishment. She wrote verses which Burns praised, and he introduced her to his 
friend Smellie, the naturahst, who was enchanted with her vivacity and talent. 
But this pleasant relationship was destined to be interrupted. On the occasion of 
a dinner-party at Woodley Park, the residence of Mr. Riddel, when wine flowed 
much too freely. Burns — in some not quite explained manner — grievously 
offended his hostess. On the following morning he apologized in prose and verse, 
threw the onus of his rudeness on Mr. Riddel's wine, — which was the next thing 
to blaming Mr. Riddel himself, — and in every way expressed regret for his con- 
duct, and abhorrence of himself. These apologies do not seem to have been 
accepted, and for a time the friends ceased to meet. Burns was hurt and angry, 
and he made the lady he was accustomed to address in adoring verses and high- 
flown epistles the subject of cruel and unmanly lampoons. The enstrangement was, 
of course, noised abroad, and the people were inclined to side with the fashionable 
lady rather than with the Jacobinical exciseman. For a time at least, Dumfries 
regarded Burns with a lowering and suspicious eye, one reason of which may be 
found in his quarrel with the Riddels and its cause, and another in the political 
principles which he professed to hold, and to which he gave imprudent expression. 

His immediate ancestors had perilled something in the cause of the Stuarts, and 
Burns, in his early days, was wont to wear a sentimental Jacobitism, — for orna- 
ment's sake, like a ring on the finger, or a sprig of heather in the bonnet. This 
Jacobitism was fed by his sentiment and his poetry. It grew out of the House of 
Stuart, as flowers grow out of the walls of ruins. But while he held the past in 
reverence, and respected aristocracy as an outcome of that past, a something around 
which tradition and ballad could gather, there was always a fierce democratic im- 
pulse in his mind, which raged at times like the ocean tide against the BuUers of 
Buchan. This democratic feeling, like his other feeling of Jacobitism, rested on no 
solid foundation. He had a strong feeling that genius and worth are always poor, 
that baseness and chicanery are always prosperous. He considered that the good , 
things of this life were secured by the rascals more or less. The truth is, his Jacob- 
itism sprang from his imagination, his Radicalism from his discontent; the one the 
offspring of the best portion of his nature, the other the offspring of the worst. 
Radicalism was originally l)orn of hunger; and Burns, while denouncing the rulers 
of his country, was simply crying out under his own proper sore. He passionatelv 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



carried particulars into generals. He was sick, and so was the whole body politic. 
He needed reform, so, of course, did the whole world, and it was more agreeable 
to begin with the world in the first instance. He was imprudent in the expression 
of his political opinions, and was continually doing himself injury thereby. He had 
written as we have seen, treasonable verses on the inn window at Stirling; and 
although on a subsequent visit he dashed out the pane, he could not by that means 
destroy the copies which were in circulation. The writing of the verses referred 
to was imprudent enough, but the expression of his Radicalism at Dumfries — 
which was a transient mood, not a fixed principle with him — was more imprudent 
still. In the one case he was a private individual, anxious to enter the Excise; in 
the other, he had entered the Excise, was actually a Government officer, and in 
receipt of a Government salary. Besides, too, the times were troublous : there was 
seditious feeling in the country, France had become a volcano in active eruption, 
and European business was carried on in its portentous light. It became known 
that Burns looked with favor on the revolutionary party across the Channel, that he 
read newspapers which were opposed to the Government, and, as a consequence, by 
the well-to-do inhabitants of Dumfries he was regarded with suspicion. This suspi- 
cion was, of course, wretched enough, but Burns need not have gone out of his way 
to incur it. He knew perfectly well that his Radicalism was based on no serious con- 
viction, that it grew out of personal discontent, and that the discontent was the re- 
sult of wounded pride, and the consciousness that he had not shaped his life aright. 
Besides all this, he seems to have lost self-command; he was constantly getting into 
scrapes from which there could be no honorable extrication. He burned his fingers, 
and he did not dread the fire. To the Subscription Library in Dumfries he pre- 
sented, amongst other volumes, a copy of De Lolme on the British Constitution, and 
inscribed on the back of the portrait of the author, " Mr. Burns presents this book 
to the Library, and begs they will take it as a creed of British liberty — until they 
find a better. R. B. " And the next morning he came to the bedside of the gentle- 
man who had the volume in custody, imploring to see De Lolme, as he feared he had 
written something in it that might bring him into trouble. We hear of him at a 
private dinner-party, when the health of Pitt was proposed, giving " The health of 
George Washington — a better man," and of his being sulky that his toast was not 
received. He had already sent a present of guns to the French Convention, with 
which our prospect of war was at this time becoming imminent ; and at a later period 
we find him quarrelling with an officer on the subject of another toast, and writing 
apologies to the effect, firstly, that when the offence was committed he was drunk; 
and secondly, that he could not fight a duel, because he had the welfare of others 
to care for. When the board of Excise ordered some inquiries to be made regard- 
ing his political conduct, he wrote Mr. Graham of Fintry, declaring that " To the 
British Constitution, on revolution principles, next after my God, I am most de- 
voutly attached." He was in a state of chronic exasperation at himself, at the rich 




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^ 



BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



people of his acquaintance and of his immediate neighborhood, and at the world 
generally; and his exasperation was continually blazing out in sarcasm and invec- 
tive. Curiously enough, too, when one thinks of it, during all this bitter time, he 
was writing songs for Mr. Thomson, who had opened a correspondence M'ith him. 
He was busy with Chloris and Phillis, while thrones were shaking, and the son of 
Saint Louis knelt on the scaffold, and Marie Antoinette during her trial was beat- 
ing out with weary fingers a piano tune on the bench before her. Every other 
week up from Dumfries to Edinburgh came by the fly a packet of songs for the 
new publication. On one occasion came the stern war-ode, Scots -wha hae lui' 
Wallace bled, which Mr. Thomson thought susceptible of improvement. But 
Burns was inexorable; he liked his ode, and as it was it should remain. It has 
been said, that by the more respectable circles in Dumfries Burns was regarded 
with suspicion, if not with positive dislike. Some evidence of this will be found 
in the anecdote related by Mr. Lockhart. " Mr. M'CulIoch," we are informed by 
that biographer, " was seldom more grieved than when, riding into Dumfries one 
fine summer evening to attend a county ball, he saw Burns walking alone on the 
shady side of the principal street of the town, while the opposite side was gay with 
successive groups of ladies and gentlemen, all drawn together for the festivities of 
the night, not one of whom appeared willing to recognize him. The horseman 
dismounted and joined Burns, who, on his proposing to him to cross the street, 
said, ' Nay, nay, my young friend, that's all over now ' ; and quoted, after a pause, 
some verses of Lady Grizel Baillie's pathetic ballad : 

' His bonnet stood ance fu' fair on his brow, 
His auld ane looked better than mony ane's new ; 
But now he let's wear ony gate it will hing. 
And casts himsel' dowie upon the corn-bing. 

' Oh, were we young as we ance hae been, 
We sud hae been galloping down on yon green, 
And linking it ower the lily-white lea — 
And werena my heart light I wad die.' 

Burns then turned the conversation, and took his young friend home with him till 
the time for the ball arrived." 

This — with the exception of the actual close — was the darkest period in Burns's 
life. In a short time the horizon cleared a little. The quarrel with Mrs. Riddel 
was healed, and in a short time books and poems were exchanged between them as 
of yore. He appears also to have had again some hope of obtaining a supervisor- 
ship — the mirage that haunted his closing years. Meanwhile, political feeling 
had become less bitter; and, in 1795, he exhibited his friendliness to the institutions 
of the country by entering himself one of the corps of volunteers which was raised 
in Dumfries, and by composing the spirited patriotic song. Does haughty Gatil in- 
vasion threat? This song became at once popular; and it showed the nation thai 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFA CE. 



the lieart of the writer was sound at the core, that he hated anarchy and tyranny 
alike, and wished to steer a prudent middle course. Better days were dawning; 
hut by this time the hardships of his youth, his constant anxieties, his hoping 
against hope, and his continual passionate stress and tumult of soul, began to tell 
on a frame that was originally powerful. In a letter to Mrs. Dunlop, in the begin- 
ning of the year, we have, under his own hand, the first warning of failing strength. 
"What a transient business is life," he writes. "Very lately I was a boy; but 
t'other day I was a young man ; and I already begin to feel the rigid fibre and 
stiffening joints of old age coming fast over my frame." In spite of breaking health, 
he attended his Excise duties, and the packets of songs were sent regularly from 
Dumfries to Edinburgh. In the songs there was no symptom of ache or pain; in 
these his natural vigor was in no wise abated. The dew still hung, diamond-like, 
upon the thorn. Love was still lord of all. On one occasion he went to a party 
at the Globe Tavern, where he waited late, and on his way home, heavy with liquor, 
he fell asleep in the open air. The result, in his weakened state of body, was dis- 
astrous. He was attacked by rheumatic fever, his appetite began to fail, his black 
eyes lost their lustre, his voice became tremulous and hollow. His friends hoped 
that, if he could endure the cold spring months, the summer warmth would revive 
him; but summer came, and brought no recovery. He was now laid aside from 
his official work. During his illness he was attended by Miss Jessie Lewars, a sister 
of his friend Lewars, — " a fellow of uncommon merit; indeed, by far the cleverest 
fellow I have met in this part of the world," — and her kindness the dying poet 
repaid by the only thing he was rich enough to give — a song of immortal sweet- 
ness. His letters at this time are full of his disease, his gloomy prospects, his 
straitened circumstances. In July he went to Brow, a sea-bathing village on 
the Solway, where Mrs. Riddel was then residing, in weak health, and there the 
friends — for all past bitternesses were now forgotten — had an interview. "Well, 
Madam, have you any commands for the other world ? " was Burns's greeting. 
He talked of his approaching decease calmly, like one who had grown so familiar 
with the idea that it had lost all its terror. His residence on the Solway was not 
productive of benefit : he was beyond all aid from sunshine and the saline breeze. 
On the 7th July, he wrote Mr. Cunningham, urging him to use. his influence with 
the Commissioners of Excise to grant him his full salary. " If they do not grant it 
me," he concludes, " I must lay my account with an exit truly en poke ; if I die 
not of disease, I must perish with hunger." On the lOth July, he wrote his brother 
Gilbert; and Mrs Dunlop, who had become unaccountably silent, two days after. 
On this same 12th July, he addressed the following letter to his cousin : — 

" My pear Cousin, — When you offered me money assistance, little did I think 
I should want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a consider- 
al)le bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process against 






BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you be so good as to 
accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten pounds ? Oh, James ! did 
you know the pride of my heart, you would feel doubly for me ! Alas ! I am not 
used to beg. The worst of it is, my health was coming about finely. You know, 
and my physician assured me that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease 
— guess, then, my horror since this business began. If I had it settled, I would 
e, I think, quite well, in a manner. How shall I use the language to you? — oh, 
do not disappoint me ! but strong necessity's curst command. 

" Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post — save me from the 
horrors of a jail. 

" JMy compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know what 
I have written. The subject is so horrible I dare not look over it again. Farewell. 

" R. B." 

On the same day he addressed JNIr. Thomson: — 

" After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to implore you 
for five pounds. A cruel scoundrel of a haberdasher, to whom I owe an account, 
taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process, and will in- 
fallil)ly put me in jail. Do, for God's sake, send me that sum, and that by return 
of post. Forgive me this earnestness; but the horrors of a jail have made me half 
distracted. I do not ask all this gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I 
hereby promise and engage to furnish you with five pounds' worth of the neatest 
song-genius you have seen. I tried my hand on Rothemurchie this morning. 
The measure is so difficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the 
lines; they are on the other side. Forgive, forgive me ! " 

This was Burns's last working day. He wrote his song in the morning. Fairest 
Maid on Devoii Banks, and the two letters afterwards — to both of which answers 
were promptly returned. He soon after left the Solway and returned to Dumfries, 
where his wife was daily expected to be confined. He came home in a small spring 
cart, and when he alighted he was unable to stand. The hand of death was visi- 
bly upon him. His children were sent to the house of Mr. Lewars : Jessie was 
sedulous in her attentions. On the 2 1st, he sank into delirium; his children were 
brought to see him for the last time; and with an execration on the legal agent 
who had threatened him, the troubled spirit passed. Those who came to see him 
as he lay in his last sleep were touched and affected. Mighty is the hallowing ot 
death to all, — to him more than to most. As he lay stretched, his dark locks 
already streaked with unnatural gray, all unworthiness fell away from him — 
every stain of passion and debauch, every ignoble word, every ebullition of scorn 
and pride — and left pure nobleness. Farmer no longer, exciseman no longer, sub- 
, ject no longer to criticism, to misrepresentation, to the malevolence of mean natures 



s 




BIO GRAPHICAL PREFA CE. 



and evil tongues, he lay there the great poet of his country, dead too early for 
himself and for it. He had passed from the judgments of Dumfries, and made 
his appeal to Time. 

Of Burns, the man and poet, what is there left to be said? During his lifetime 
he was regarded as a phenomenon; and now, when he has been seventy years in 
his grave he is a phenomenon still. He came up from Ayrshire with all the sense 
and shrewdness of its peasantry, the passion of its lovers, the piety of its circles of 
family worship, the wild mirth of its kirns and halloweens. Of all the great men 
of the North Country, his ^zs, incomparably the fullest soul. What fun he had, 
what melancholy, what pity, what anger, what passion, what homely sagacity, 
what sensitiveness ! Of everything he was brimful and overflowing. It is difficult 
to carry a full cup and not to spill it. He had his errors, but they arose out of his 
splendid and perilous richness. As a man he was full of natural goodness, but he 
was unreticent even among poets. We know the best and the worst of him; and 
he has himself frankly told us that best and that worst. He had to tight with ad- 
verse circumstances, he died before he had run his race, and his fame — greater 
than that of any other poet of his country — rests upon poems written swiftly, as 
men write their letters, and on songs which came to him naturally as its carol 
comes to the blackbird. 

Of all poets Burns was, perhaps, the most directly inspired. His poems did not 
grow — like stalactites — by the slow process of accretion; like Adam, they had no 
childhood — they awoke complete. Burns produced all his great effects by single 
strokes. In his best things there is an impetifs, a hurry, which gives one the idea 
of boundless resource. To him a song was the occupation of a morning; his 
poetic epistles drive along in a fiery sleet of words and images : his Tain O'' Shanter 
was written in a day — since Bruce fought Bannockburn, the best single day's work 
done in Scotland. Burns was never taken by surprise ; he was ready for all calls 
and emergencies. He had not only — like Addison — a thousand-pound note at 
home, but he had — to carry out the image — plenty of loose intellectual coin in 
his pocket. A richer man — with plenty of money in his purse, and able to get 
the money out of his purse when swift occasion required — Nature has seldom sent 
into the world. 

Born and bred as he was in the country, we find in Burns the finest pictures of 
rural life. We smell continually the newly-turned earth, the hawthorn blossom, 
the breath of kine. His shepherds and shepherdesses are not those who pipe and 
make love in .\.rcady and on Sevres china — they actually work, receive wages, 
attend markets, hear sermons, go sweethearting, and, at times, before the congre- 
gation endure rebuke. The world he depicts is a real world, and the men and 
women are also real. Burns had to sweat in the eye of Phcebus, and about all he 
writes there is an out-of-doors feeling. Although conversant with sunrises and 
sunsets, the processes of vegetation, and all the shows and forms of nature, he 






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BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



seldom or never describes these things for tlieir own sake; they are always kept 
in subordination to the central human interest. Burns cared little for the natural 
picturesque in itself; the moral picturesque touched him more nearly. An 
old soldier in tattered scarlet interested him more than an old ruin ; he preferred 

a gnarled character to a gnarled tree. The ridges of Arran haunt Ayrshire 

Burns must daily have seen them from his door at JMossgiel, — and yet, to this 
most striking object in his range of vision, there is not a single allusion in his 
letters and poems. If Wordsworth had been placed in the same environment 
how he would have made his suns rise or set on Arran ! After all, it is usually 
the town-poets — men like Hunt and Keats — who go philanderino- after nature, 
\\\\o are enraptured by the graceful curvature of ferns and the colors of mosses 
and lichens. Burns had an exquisite delight in nature, especially in her more 
sombre and gloomy aspects ; but he took a deeper interest in man, and, as a con- 
sequence, the chief interest of his poems is of a moral kind. We value them not 
so much for their color, their harmony, their curious felicities of expression, as 
for the gleams of sagacity, the insight into character, the strong homely sense, 
and those wonderful short sentences scattered everywhere. Of those short lines 
and sentences, now sly, now caustic, now broadly humorous, now purely didactic, 
no writings, if Shakespeare's be excepted, have a greater abundance. They cir- 
culate everywhere like current coin ; they have passed like iron into the blood of 
our common speech. Of Burns's conversation in Edinburgh we have little re- 
corded that is specially characteristic — and for this we blame not Burns, but his 
reporters. The best thing — indeed, the only true and deep thing — is the simple 
statement which struck Dugald Stewart so much when the pair were standing on 
the Braid hills, looking out on the fair morning world. Beneath were cottages, 
early sparrows doubtless noisy in the thatch, pillars of blue smoke, telling of 
preparation of breakfast for laborers afield, curling in the calm air. Burns took 
in the whole landscape, and declared that, in his view, the worthiest object it con- 
tained was the cluster of smoking cots, knowing as he did, what worth, what 
affection, what pious contentment and happiness, nestled within them. This really 
is a gleam into the man's inmost soul. Poetry, to him, lay in the cottage rather 
than in the tree that overshadowed it, or the stream that sparkled past it. In one 
of his poems he lays down the doctrine in express terms : — 

" To mak a happy fireside clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 
Of human life." 

The poetry of a man so intensely humane is certain to come home to the bosoms 
and businesses of all other men — pou-erfully to the happy, more powerfully to the 
miserable, who are ever in the majority. To the wretched, out of the Bible, there 





BIOGRAPHICAL PREFACE. 



is no such solace as the poetry of Burns. His genius comes to their hovels, their 
poor bread wetted with tears, as Howard came to the strong places of pestilence — 
irradiating, consoling; like the hearing of soft tones, like the touches of tender 
hands. And then his large friendliness flows out in every direction. The " mouse " 
i-; his "poor earth-born companion and fellow-mortal." He pities the "silly 
sheep," and the " chittering wing " of the bird perched on the frozen spray. The 
farmer speaks to his old mare " Maggie " as he would to a comrade, who had 
shared with him his struggles, toils, and triumphs. The poetry of Burns flows 
into a wintry world, like a tepid gulf-stream — mitigating harsh climates, breathing 
genial days, carrying with it spring-tim'^ and the cuckoo's note. 

Of his humor again — which is merely his love laughing and playing antics in 
very extravagance of its joy — what can be said, except that it is the freshest, most 
original, most delightful in the world? What a riot of fun in Tarn C Shanter; 
what strange co-mixture of mirth and awfulness in Death and Dr. Hornbook ; what 
extravaganza in the Address to a Haggis ! To Burns's eye the world was dark 
enough, usually; but, on the gala days and carnivals of his spirit. Mirth rules the 
hour, ragged Poverty dances all the lighter for his empty pockets, Death himself 
grins as he is poked in the lean ribs. And if, as is said, from the sweetest wine 
you can extract the sourest vinegar, one can fancy into what deadly satire this love 
will conceal itself, when it becomes hate. Burns hates his foe — be it man or 
doctrine — as intensly as he loves his mistress. Holy Willie'' s Praver is a satirical 
crucifixion — slow, lingering, inexorable. He hated Hypocrisy, he tore its holy 
robe, and for the outrage Hypocrisy did not forgive him while he lived, nor has 
it yet learned to forgive him. 

If we applaud the Roman Emperor who found Rome brick and left it marble, 
what shall we say of the man who f<.)und the songs of his country indelicate and 
left them pure — who made wholesome the air which the spirit and the aff'ections 
oreathe? And Burns did this. He drove immodesty from love, and coarseness 
from humor. And not only did he purify existing Scottish Song ; he added to it 
all that it has of best and rarest. Since his day, no countryman of his, whatever 
may be his mood, need be visited by a sense of solitariness, or ache with a pent-up 
feeling. If he is glad, he will find a song as merry as himself; if sad, he will find 
one that will sigh with his own woe. In Burns's Songs, love finds an exquisite 
companionship; independence a backer and second; conviviality a roaring table, 
and the best fellows round it; patriotism a deeper love of country, and a gayer 
scorn of death than even its own. And in so adding to, and purifying Scottish 
Song, Burns has conferred the greatest benefit on his countrymen that it is in the 
power of a poet to confer. 




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CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 



BURNS'S LIFE AND WORKS. 



ALLOWAY. 
1759- 

January 25. — Robert Burns born at Alloway, parish of Ayr, in a clay-built 
cottage, the work of his father's own hands. His father, WiUiam Burnes (so the 
family name was always written until changed by the poet), was a native of Kin- 
cardineshire, born November 11,1721. His mother, Agnes' Brown, born March 
1 7, 1 732, was daughter of a farmer in Carrick, Ayrshiie. The poet's parents were 
married December 15, 1757. William Burnes was then a gardener and farm- 
overseer. 

1765 — (.Etat. Six). 

Sent to a school at Alloway Mill, kept by one Campbell, who was succeeded in 
May by John Murdoch, a young teacher of uncommon merit, engaged by 
WiUiam Burnes and four of his neighbors, who boarded him alternately at their 
houses, and guaranteed him a small salary. Two advantages were thus possessed 
by the poet — an excellent father and an excellent teacher. 



MOUNT OLIPHANT. 

1766 — (Seven). 

William Burnes removed to the farm of Mount Oliphant, two miles distant. 
His sons still attended Alloway school. The books used were a spelling-book, the 
New Testajuetit, the Bible, Mason's Collection of Prose and Verse, and Fisher's 
English Grammar. 

1768 — (Nine). 

Murdoch gave up Alloway school. Visiting the Burnes family before his 
departure, he took with him, as a present, the play of Titus Andronicus. He 
read part of the play aloud, but the horrors of the scene shocked and distressed 



^ 



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CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 




the childi-en, and Robert threatened to burn the book if it was left. Insteatl of 
it, Murdoch gave them a comedy, the School for Love (translated from the French) 
and an English Gravimat-. He had previously lent Robert a Life of Hannibal. 
"The earhest composition that I recollect taking any pler^sure in," says the poet, 
" was the Vision of Mirza, and a hymn of Addison's beginning, LIow are Thy 
servants blest, O Lord! I particularly remember one half-stanza, which was 
music to my boyish ear, — 

' For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave! ' " 

He had found these in Mason's Collection. The latent seeds of poetry were 
further cultivated in his mind by an old woman living in the family, Betty David- 
son, who had a great store of tales, songs, ghost-stories, and legendary lore. 



1770 — (Eleven). 

By the time he was ten or eleven years of age he was an excellent English 
scholar, " a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles." After the departure of 
Murdoch, William Burnes was the only instructor of his sons and other children. 
He taught them arithmetic, and procured for tlieir use Salmon's Geographical 
Grammar, Derhain's Physics and Astro- Theology, and Ray's Wisdom of God in 
the Creation. These gave the boys some idea of Geography, Astronomy, and Nat- 
ural History. He had also Stackhouse'' s History of the Bible, Taylor's Scripture 
Doctrine of Original Sin, a volume of English History (reigns of James I. and 
Charles I.). The blacksmith lent the common metrical Life of Sir William 
Wallace (which was read with Scottish fervor and enthusiasm), and a maternal 
uncle supplied a Collcctio7i of Letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, M'hich 
inspired Robert with a strong desire to excel in letter-writing. 

1772 — (Thirteen). 

To improve their penmanship, William Burnes sent his sons, week about, dur- 
ing the summer quarter, to the parish school of Dalrymple, two or three miles 
distant. This year Murdoch was appointed teacher of English in Ayr school, and 
he renewed his acquaintance with the Burnes family, sending them Pope's Works 
and " some other poetry." 

1773 — (Fourteen). 

Robert boarded three weeks with Murdoch at Ayr in order to revise his Eng- 
lish Grammar. He acquired also a smattering of French, and on returning home 
he took with him a French Dictionary and French Grammar, and a copy of 
Telemaque. He attempted Latin, but soon abandoned it. , 





CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



1774 — (Fifteen). 

His knowledge of French introduced him to some respectable families in Ayi 
(Dr. Malcolm's and others). A lady lent him the Spectator, Pope's Homer, and 
several other books. In this year began with him love and poetry. His partner 
in the harvest-field was a " Ijewitching creature " a year younger than himself, 
Nelly Kilpatrick, daughter of the blacksmith, who sang sweetly, and on her he 
afterwards wrote his first song and first effort at rhyme, O, once I loved a boniiie 
lass. 

1775 — (Sixteen). 

About this time Robert was the principal laborer on the farm. From the un- 
productiveness of the soil, the loss of cattle, and other causes, William Burnes 
had got into pecuniary difficulties, and the threatening letters of the factor (the 
landlord being dead) used to set the distressed family all in tears. The character 
of the factor is drawn in the Tale of Twa Dogs. The hard labor, poor living, 
and sorrow of this period formed the chief cause of the poet's subsequent fits of 
melancholy, frequent headaches, and palpitation of the heart. 

1776 — (Seventeen). 
Spent his seventeenth summer (so in poet's MS. British Museum; Dr. Currie 
altered the date to nineteenth) on a smuggling coast in Ayrshire, at Kirkoswald, 
on purpose to learn mensuration, surveying, etc. He made good progress, though 
mixing somewhat in the dissipation of the place, which had then a flourishing con- 
traband trade. Met the second of his poetical heroines, Peggy Thomson, on whom 
he afterwards wrote his fine song. Now rvestlin ruinds and slaughf ring guns. 
The charms of this maiden " overset his trigonometry and set him ofif at a tangent 
from the sphere of his studies." On his return from Kirkoswald (" in my seven- 
teenth year," he writes) he attended a dancing school to " give his manners a 
brush." His father had an antipathy to these meetings, and his going "in abso- 
lute defiance of his father's command " (^sic in orig.) was an " instance of rebel- 
lion " which he conceived brought on him the paternal resentment and even dis- 
like. Gilbert Burns dissents altogether from this conclusion : the poet's extreme 
sensibility and regret for his one act of disobedience led him unconsciously to 
exaggerate the circumstances of the case. At Kirkoswald he had enlarged his 
reading by the addition of Thonison^s and Shenstone^s Works, and among the 
other books to which he had access at this period, besides those mentioned above, 
were some plays of Shakespeare, Allan Ramsay'' s Works, Llervefs Aleditations, 
and a Select Collection of English Songs ("The Lark," 2 vols.). This last work 
was, he says, his vade mecnm ; he pored over it driving his cart or walking to 
labor, and carefully noted the true tender or sublime from affectation and fustian. 
He composed this year two stanzas, I drcain'd I lay tvhere flozvers ivere springing. 





CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



LOCHLEA. 

1777 — (Eighteen). 

William Burnes and family remove to a larger farm at Lochlea, parish of Tar- 
bolton. Take possession at Whitsunday. Affairs for a time look brighter, and 
all work diligently. Robert and Gilbert have £ 7 per annum each as wages from 
their father, and they also take land from him for the purpose of raising flax on 
their own account. "Though, when young, the poet was bashful and awkward 
in his intercourse with women, as he approached manhood his attachment to their 
society became very strong, and he was constantly the victim of some fair en- 
slaver." (^Gilbert Burns.) He was in the secret, he says, of half the loves of the 
parish of Tarbolton. 

1778 — (Nineteen). 

" I was," he says, " about eighteen or nineteen when I sketched the outlines 
of a tragedy." The whole had escaped his memory, except a fragment of twenty 
lines : All devil as I am, etc. 

1780 — (Twenty-one). 

The " Bachelors' Club," established at Tarbolton by Robert and Gilbert Burns, 
and five other young men. Meetings were held once a month, and questions 
debated. The sum expended by each member was not to exceed threepence. 

1 78 1 — (Twenty-two). 

David Sillar admitted a member of the Bachelors' Club. He describes Burns : 
" I recollect hearing his neighbors observe he had a great deal to say for himself, 
and that they suspected his principles (his religious principles). He wore the 
only tied hair in the parish, and in the church his plaid, which was of a particu- 
lar color, I think fillemot, he wrapped in a particular manner round his shoulders. 
]>etween sermons we often took a walk in the fields ; in these walks I have fre- 
quently been struck by his facility in addressing the fair sex, and it was generally 
a death-blow to our conversation, however agreeable, to meet a female acquain- 
tance. Some book he always carried and read when not otherwise employed. 
It was likewise his custom to read at table. In one of my visits to Lochlea, in 
the time of a sowen supper, he was so intent on reading, — I think Tristram 
Shandy, — that his spoon falling out of his hand made him exclaim in a tone 
scarcely imitable, ' Alas, poor Yorick ! ' " The poet had now added to his collec- 
tion of books Mackenzie's Alan of Feeling (which he said he prized next to the 
Bible) and Man of the World, Sterne's Works, and Macpherson's Ossian. He 
would appear also to have had the poetical works of Young. Among the fair 
ones whose society he courted was a superior young woman, bearing the unpoeti- 



^ 




CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



cal name of Ellison Begbie. She was the daughter of a small farmer at Galston, 
but was servant with a family on the banks of the Cessnock. On her he wrote a 
" song of similes,"' beginning On Cessnock batiks there lives a lass, and the earli- 
est of his printed correspondence is addressed to Ellison. His letters are grave, 
sensible epistles, written with remarkable purity and correctness of language. At 
this time poesy was, he says, " a darling walk for his mind." The oldest of his 
printed pieces were IVinter, a Dirge, the Death of Poor Alailie, John Barley- 
torn, and the three songs It was upon a Lammas night, Notv zoestlin tuinds and 
slaicghfring guns, and Behind yon hills -where Stinckarjlozus. We may add to 
these O Tibbie I hae seen the day and My father luas a fan/ie'r. His exquisite 
lyric, Mary, at thy -window be, was also, he says, one of his juvenile works. 

1782 — (Twenty-three). 

Ellison Begbie refuses his hand. She was about to leave her situation, and he 
expected himself to " remove a little further off." He went to the town of Irvine. 
" My twenty-third year," he says, " was to me an important era. Partly through 
whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I joined a 
flax-dresser in a neighboring town to learn his trade, and carry on the business of 
manufacturing and retailing flax. This turned out a sadly unlucky affair. My 
partner was a scoundrel of the first water, who made money by the mystery of 
thieving, and to finish the whole, while we were giving a welcoming carousal to 
the New Year, our shop, by the drunken carelessness of my partner's wife, took 
fire, and was burned to ashes; and left me, like a true poet, not worth a six- 
pence." * In Irvine his reading was only increased, he says, by two volumes of 
Pamela, and one of Ferdinand, Cotmt Fathotu, which gave him some idea of 
novels. Rhyme, except some religious pieces that are in print, he had given up, 
but meeting with Fergusson's Scottish Poems, he " strung anew his lyre with emu- 
lating vigor." He also formed a friendship for a young fellow, " a very noble 
character," Richard Brown, and with others of a freer manner of thinking and 
living than he had been used to, " the consequence of w'hich was," he says, " that 
soon after I resumed the plough, I wrote the Poet's Welcome " (to his illegitimate 
child). But this was not till the summer of 1784. Before leaving Lochlea he 
became a Freemason. 

* From orig. in Brit. Museum. Burns wrote an interesting and affecting letter to his father, 
from Ir\'ine. Dr. Currie dates it 1781, which we think is an error. The poet's statement is cor- 
roborated by his brother's narrative, and the stone chimney of the room occupied by the poet is 
inscribed, evidently by his own hand, " R. B. 17S2." He consoled himseh for his loss after this 

fashion: — ,, ^ , , , ,. 1 , t 

" O, why the deuce should I repine. 

And be an ill foreboder? 

I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine, 

I'll go and be a sodger." 



^- 




CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



MOSSGIEL. 
1784 — (Twexty-five). 
February 13. — William Burnes died at Lochlea in his sixty-fourth year, his 
affairs in utter ruin. His sons and two grown-up daughters ranked as creditors 
of their father for arrears of wages, and raised a little money to stock another 
farm. This new farm was that of Mossgiel, parish of Mauchline, which had been 
sub-let to them by Gavin Hamilton, writer (or attorney) in Mauchline. They 
eiatered on the farm in March : " Come, go to, I will be wise," resolved the poet, 
but bad seed and a late harvest deprived them of half their expected crop. Toetry 
was henceforth to be the only successful vocation of Robert Burns. To this year 
may be assigned the Epistle to John Rankine (a strain of rich humor, but indeli- 
cate), and some minor pieces. In April or May he commenced his acquaintance 
with "Bonnie Jean" — Jean Armour — an event which colored all his future life, 
imparting to it its brightest lights and its darkest shadows. 

1785 — (Twenty-six). 
In January the Epistle to Davie completed: Death and Doctor Hornbook writ- 
ten about February. Epistles to J. Lapraik^ April i, 21, and .September 13. 
Epistle to W. Simpson in May. The Twa Herds, or the Holy Tnlzie : this satire 
was the first of his poetic offspring that saw the light (excepting some of his 
songs)., audit was received by a certain description of the clergy, as wed as laity, 
with a " roar of applause." Burns had now taken his side with the " New Light," 
or rationalistic section of the church, then in violent antagonism to the " Auld 
Light," or evangelistic party, which comprised the great bulk of the lower and 
middling classes. To this year belong The yolly Beggars, Halloween, The Cot- 
ter's Saturday Night, Man -was made to Mourn, Address to the Deil, To a Mouse, 
A Winter Night, Holy Willie's Prayer, and The Holy Fair (early MS. in British 
Museum), Epistle to James Smith, etc. 

1786 — (Twenty-seven). 

In rapid succession were produced Scotch Drink, The Author's Earnest Cry 
and Prayer, The Twa Dogs, The Ordination, Address to the Unco Guid, To a 
Mountaifi Daisy, Epistle to a Young Friend, A Bard's Epitaph, The Lament, 
Despondency, etc. .Such a body of original poetry, written within about twelve 
months, — poetry so natural, forcible, and picturesque, so quaint, sarcastic, humor- 
ous, and tender, — had unquestionably not appeared since Shakespeare. Misfor- 
tunes, however, were gathering round the poet. The farm had proved a failure, 
and the connection with Jean Armour brought grief and shame. He gave her a 
written acknowledgment of marriage, but at the urgent entreaty of her father she 



¥ 



# 




CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. xlvii 

consented that this document should be destroyed. The poet was frantic with 
distress and indignation. He resolved on quitting the country, engaged to go out 
to Jamaica as book-keeper on an estate, and, to raise money for his passage, 
arranged to publish his poems. Subscription papers were issued in April. In 
the meantime, in bitter resentment of the perfidy, as he esteemed it, of the un- 
fortunate Jean Armour, he renewed his intimacy with a former love, Mary Camp- 
bell, or " Highland Mary," who had been a servant in the family of Gavin Ham- 
ilton, and was now dairy-maid at Coilsfield. He proposed marriage to Mary 
Campbell, was accepted, and Mary left her service and went to her parents in 
Argyleshire, preliminary to her union with the poet. They parted on the banks 
of the Ayr, on Sunday, May 14, exchanging Bibles and vowing eternal fidelity. 
No more is heard of Mary until after her death, which took place in October of 
this year. The poems were published in August, an edition of 600 copies, and 
were received with enthusiastic applause. The poet cleared about £,2.0 by the 
volume, took a passage in the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde (nothing 
is said of Mary accompanying him), and was preparing to embark, when a letter 
from Dr. Blacklock, offering encouragement for a second edition, roused his poetic 
ambition, and led him to try his fortune in Edinburgh. Before starting he made 
the acquaintance of Mrs. Dunlop of Dunlop, the most valued and one of the 
most accomplished of his correspondents. 

EDINBURGH. 

November 28, 1786. — Burns reaches the Scottish capital, and instantly be- 
comes the lion of the season. He is courted and caressed l^y the witty, the fash- 
ionable, and the learned — by Dugald Stewart, Harry Erskine, Hugh Blair, Adam 
Ferguson, Dr. Robertson, Lord Monboddo, Dr. Gregory, Eraser Tytler, Lord 
Glencairn, Lord Eglinton, Patrick Miller (the ingenious laird of Dalswinton), the 
fascinating Jane, Duchess of Gordon, Miss Burnet, etc. Henry Mackenzie, the 
" Man of Feeling," writes a critique on the poems in the Lounger, — the members 
of the Caledonian Hunt subscribe for a hundred copies of the new edition, — and 
the poet is in a fair way, as he says, of becoming as eminent as Thomas a Kempis 
or John Bunyan. 

1787 — (Twenty-eight). 

Burns applies for and obtains permission to erect a tombstone in Canongate 
Churchyard over the remains of Fergusson the poet. In April appears the second 
edition of the Poems, consisting of 3,000 copies, with a list of subscribers pre- 
fixed, and a portrait of the poet. In this edition appeared Death and Dr. Horn- 
book, the Ordination, and Address to the Unco Quid, which were excluded from 
the first edition, and several new pieces, the best of which are the Brigs of Ayr 
and Tarn Samson's Elegy. On the 5th of May the poet sets off on a tour with a 



Pfe, 



Tt 



i£j 



xlviii CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 

young friend, Robert Ainslie, in order to visit the most interesting scenes in the 
south of Scotland. Crossing the Tweed over Coldstream bridge, Burns knelt 
down on the English side and poured forth, uncovered, and with strong emotion, 
the prayer for Scotland contained in the two last stanzas of the Cotter's Saturday 
iVio-ht. June 4, he was made an honorary burgess of the town of Dumfries, after 
which he proceeded to Ayrshire, and arrived at Mauchline on the 9th of June. 
" It will easily be conceived," says Dr. Currie, " with what pleasure and pride he 
was received by his mother, his brothers, and sisters. He had left them poor and 
comparatively friendless; he returned to them high in public estimation, and easy 
in his circumstances." At this time the poet renewed his intimacy with Jean 
Armour. Towards the end of the month he made a short Highland tour, in 
which he visited Loch Lomond and Dumbarton, and returning to Mauchline, we 
find him (July 25) presiding as Depute Grand Master of the Tarholton Mason 
Lodge, and admitting Professor Dugald Stewart, Mr. Alexander of Ballochmyle, 
and -others, as honorary members of the Lodge. On the 25th of August the 
poet set off from Edinburgh on a northern tour with William Nicol of the High 
School. They visited Bannockburn, spent two days at Blair with the Duke of 
Athole and family, proceeded as far as Inverness, then by way of Elgin, Focha- 
bers (dining with the Duke and Duchess of Gordon), on to Aberdeen, Stone- 
haven, and Montrose, where he met his relatives the Burneses. Arrived at Edin- 
burgh on the 1 6th of September. In December made the acquaintance of Clar- 
inda, or Mrs. M'Lehose, with whom he kept up a passionate correspondence for 
about three months. Overset by a drunken coachman, and sent home with a 
severely bruised knee, which confined him for several weeks. Mr. A. Wood, 
surgeon " lang sandy Wood," applies to Mr. Graham of Fintry, Commissioner of 
Excise, and gets Burns's name enrolled among the number of expectant Excise 
officers. During all this winter the poet zealously assists RL-. James Johnson in 
his publication, the Scots Musical Museum. 

1788 — (Twenty-nine). 

Left Edinburgh for Dumfries to inspect Mr. Miller's lands at Dalswinto)i. 
Stopped by the way at Mossgiel, February 23. Poor Jean Armour, who had 
again loved not wisely, but too well, was living apart, separated from her parents, 
and supported by Burns. He visited her the day before his departure for Dum- 
fries (apparently February 24), and it is painful to find him writing thus to 
Clarinda : " I, this morning as I came home, called for a certain woman. I am 
disgusted with her. I cannot endure her. I, while my heart smote me for the 
profanity, tried to compare her with my Clarinda; 'twas setting the expiring 
glimmer of a farthing taper beside the cloudless glory of the meridian sun. 
Here was tasteless insipidity, vulgarity of soul, and mercenary fawning; there, 
polished good sense. Heaven-born genius, and the most generous, the most deli- 





CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



cate, the most tender passion. I have done with her, and she with me." ' In 
less than two months they were married ! In this, as in the Highland Mary 
episode, Burns's mobility, or " excessive susceptibility of immediate impressions," - 
seems something marvellous, and more akin to the French than the Scotch char- 
acter. Returned to Edinburgh in March, and on the 13th took a lease of the 
farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the Nith. On the 19th settled with Creech, the 
profits from the Edinburgh edition and copyright being about ;^500, of which 
the poet gave ;^i8o to his brother Gilbert, as a loan, to enable him to continue 
(with the family) at Mossgiel. In the latter end of April Burns was privately 
married to Jean Armour, and shortly afterwards wrote on her his two charming 
songs Of a'' tJu airis the wiiid can blaio and O, were I on Parnassus hill ! 

ELLISLAND. 

In June the poet went to reside on his farm, his wife remaining at Mauchline 
until a new house should be built at Ellisland. Formed the acquaintance of 
Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, a gentleman of literary and antiquarian tastes, who 
resided at Friars Carse, within a mile of Ellisland. On 28th June wrote 
Verses in Friars Carse Hermitage. August 5, the poet at Mauchline made 
public acknowledgment of his marriage before the Kirk Session, at the same 
time giving " a guinea note for behoof of the poor." In December conducted 
Mrs. Burns to the banks of the Nith. I hae a wife d' my ain ! 

1789 — (Thirty). 

Visited Edinburgh in February, and received about f^ 50 more of copyright 
money from Creech. August 18, son born to the poet, named Francis Wallace. 
About the same time received appointment to the Excise. October 16, the great 
bacchanalian contest for the Whistle took place at Friars Carse in presence of the 
poet. On the 20th of October (as calculated, and indeed proved by Mr. Cham- 
bers) the sublime and affecting lyric. To Mary in Heaven, was composed. Met 
Grose the antiquary at Friars Carse, and afterwards wrote the humorous poem 
On Captain Grose''s Peregrinations. In December was written the election 
ballad The Five Carlines. 

1790 — (Thirty-one) . 

January 11. — Writes to Gilbert that his farm is a ruinous affair. On the 14th, 
addressing his friend Mr. Dunbar, W.S., relative to his Excise appointment, he 
says: " I found it a very convenient business to have ;^50 per annum; nor have 

1 From the original, published in Banffshire yournat. 

■ So defined by Byron, who was himself a victim to this " unhappy attribute." See " Don Juan," 
canto xvi. 97. 




^^ 





1 CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 

I yet felt any of those mortifying circumstances in it 1 was led to fear." The 
duties were hard; he had to aide at least 200 miles every week, but he still con- 
tributed largely to the Scots Musical Muscmii, wrote the elegy On Captain 
Matthew Henderson (one of the most exquisite of the poet's productions), and in 
autumn produced Tarn C Shunter, by universal assent the crowning glory and 
masterpiece of its author. 

1791 — • (Thirty-two). 

In February wrote Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, and Lament for yaines 
Earl of GUncairn. In March had his right arm broken by the fall of his horse, 
and was for some weeks disabled from writing. In this month also occurred an 
event which probably caused deeper pain than the broken arm. First, as Mr. 
Chambers says, "we have a poor girl lost to the reputable world; " (this was 
" Anna with the gowden locks," niece to the hostess of the Globe Tavern ; ) 
"next we have Burns seeking an asylum for a helpless infant at his brother's; 
then a magnanimous wife interposing with the almost romantically generous 
offer to become herself its nurse and guardian." ^ April 9, a third son born to 
the poet, and named William Nicol. At the close of the month the poet sold his 
crop at Ellisland, " and sold it well." Declined to attend the crowning of Thom- 
son's bust at Ednam, but wrote verses for the occasion. In November made a 
short visit — his last — to Edinburgh, and shortly afterwards wrote his inimitable 
farewell to Claruida, Ae fond kiss and then lue sever. The fourth stanza of this 
song Sir Walter Scott said contained " the essence of a thousand love tales." 

DUMFRIES. 

At Martinmas (Nov. 11), the poet having disposed of his stock and other 
effects at Ellisland, and surrendered the lease of the farm to Mr. Miller the pro- 
prietor, removed with his family to the town of Dumfries. He occupied for a 
year and a half three rooms of a second floor on the north side of Bank Street 
(then called the Wee Vennel). On taking up his residence in the town. Burns 
was well received by the higher class of inhabitants and the neighboring gentry. 
One of the most accomplished of the latter was Mrs. Walter Riddel {nee Maria 
Woodley), then aged only about eighteen. This lady, with her husband, a 
brother of Captain Riddel of Glenriddel, lived on a small estate about four miles 
from Dumfries, which in compliment to the lady they called Woodley Park (now 
Goldielea). 

' Mrs. Burns was much attached to the child, who remained with her till she was seventeen 
years of age, when she married a soldier, John Thomson of the Stirling Militia. She is still 
living, and strongly resembles her father. Poor Anna the mother felt deeply the disgrace; she, 
however, made a decent marriage in Leith, but died comparatively young, without any fam.ily by 
her husband. 




CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



1792 — (Thirty -three). 

February 27. — Burns behaved gallantly in seizing and boarding a smuggling 
brig in the Solvvay. The vessel, with her arms and stores, was sold by auction in 
Dumfries, and Burns purchased four carronades or small guns, for which he paid 
£t,. These he sent, with a letter, to the French Convention, but they were re- 
tained at Dover by the Custom-house authorities. This circumstance is supposed 
10 have drawn on the poet the notice of his jealous superiors. He warmly sympa- 
thized with the French people in their struggle against despotism, and the Board 
of Excise ordered an inquiry into the poet's political conduct, though it is doubt- 
ful whether any reprimand was ever given him. In September Mr. George 
Thomson, Edinburgh, commenced his publication of national songs and melodies, 
and Burns cordially lent assistance to the undertaking, but disclaimed all idea 
or acceptance of pecuniary remuneration. On the 14th of November he trans- 
mitted to Thomson the song of ILighland Mary, and ne.xt month one of the most 
arch and humorous of all his ditties, Duncan Gray cam here to woo. 

1793 — (Thirty-four). 

The poet continues his invaluable and disinterested labors for Mr. Thomson's 
publication. In July he makes an excursion into Galloway with his friend Mr. 
Syme, stamp distributor, and according to that gentleman (though Burns's own 
statement on the subject is different) , he composed his national song, Scots wka hae, 
in the midst of a thunder-storm on the wilds of Kenmure. The song was sent to 
Thomson in September, along with one no less popular, Aidd lAing Syne. At 
Whitsuntide the poet removed from the "WeeVennel" to a better house (rent 
;i^8 per annum) in the Mill-hole Brae (now Burns Street), and in this house he 
lived till his death. His widow continued to occupy it till her death, March 26, 
1834. 

1794 — (Thirty'-five). 

At a dinner-party at Woodley Park, on one occasion the poet, like most of the 
guests, having exceeded in wine, was guilty of some act of rudeness to the 
accomplished hostess which she and her friends resented very warmly. A rupture 
took place, and for nearly a twelvemonth there was no intercourse between the 
parties. During this interval Burns wrote several lampoons on Mrs. Riddel, 
wholly unworthy of him as a man or as a poet. April 4, Captain Riddel of 
Glenriddel died unreconciled to Burns, yet the latter honored his memorv with 
a sonnet. August 12, another son born to the poet, and named James Glencairn. 
During this autumn and winter Burns wrote some of his finest songs, inspired by 
the charms of Jane Lorimer, the " Chloris " of many a lyric. In November he 
composed his lively song, Contented ivf little and cantie zvi' mair, which he 



# 




CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. 



intended as a picture of his own mind; but it is only, as Mr. Chambers says, the 
picture of one aspect of his mind. Mr. Perry of the ALornuig Chronicle wishes to 
engage Burns as a contributor to his paper, but the " truly generous offer " is 
declined, lest connection with the Whig journal should injure his prospects in the 
Excise For a short time he acted as supervisor, and thought that his political 
sins were forgiven. 

1795 — (TlIIRTY-SIX). 

In January the poet composed his manly and independent song For a' that and 
a' that. His intercourse with Maria Riddel is renewed, and she sends him 
occasionally a book, or a copy of verses, or a ticket for the theatre. He ne» er 
relaxes his genial labors for the musical works of Johnson and Thomson, and le 
writes a series of election ballads in favor of the Whig candidate, Mr. Heron. 
He joins the Dumfriesshire corps of Volunteers, enrolled in the month of March, 
and writes his loyal and patriotic song, Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? also 
his fine national strain, Their groves of sioeet myrtle let foreign lands reckon, and 
one of the best of his ballads. Last May a braw -wooer. The poet's health, 
however, gives way, and premature age has set in. 



1796 — (Thiktv-Seven) 

The decline of the poet is accelerated by an accidental circumstance. One 
night in January he sat late in the Globe Tavern. There was deep snow on the 
ground, and in going home he sank down, overpowered by drowsiness and the 
liquor he had taken, and slept for some hours in the open air. From the cold 
caught on this occasion he never wholly recovered. He still, however, continued 
his song-writing, and one of the most beautiful and most touching of his lyrics 
was also one of his latest. This was the song beginning Here^s a health to ane 7 
lo^e dear, written on Jessy Lewars, a maiden of eighteen, sister to a brother excise- 
man, who proved a "ministering angel" to the poet in his last illness. In May, 
another election called forth another ballad, IVha will bny fny troggin ? And 
about the middle of June we find the poet writing despondingly to his old friend 
Johnson, and requesting a copy of the Scots Mjisical Museum to present to a 
young lady. This was no doubt the copy presented to Jessy Lewars, June 26, 
inscribed with the verses. Thine be the volutnes, Jessy fair. As a last effort for 
health. Burns went on the 4th of July to Brow, a sea-bathing hamlet on the Sol- 
way. There he was visited Ijy Maria Riddel, who thought " the stamp of death 
was imprinted on his features." He was convinced himself that his illness would 
prove fatal, and some time before this he had said to his wife, " Don't be afraid : 
I'll be more respected a hundred years after I am dead, than I am at present." 
Mrs. Riddel saw the poet again on the 5th of July, when they parted to meet no 
more. On the 7th he wrote to his friend Alexander Cunningham to move the 





-h£. 



05i 



CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE. liii 

Commissoners of Excise to continue his full salary of £ 50 instead of reducing it, 
as was the rule in the case of excisemen off duty, to £T)^. Mr. Findlater, his 
superior officer, says he had no doubt this would have been done had the poet 
lived. On the loth Burns wrote to his brother as to his hopeless condition, his 
debts, and his despair; and on the same day he addressed a request to his fathe>-- 
in-law, stern old James Armour, that he would write to Mrs. Armour, then in Fife, 
to come to the assistance of her daughter, the poet's wife, during the time of her 
confinement. His thoughts turned also to his friend Mrs. Dunlop, who had 
unaccountably been silent for some time. He recalled her interesting correspon- 
dence : " With what pleasure did I use to break up the seal ! The remembrance 
adds yet one pulse more to my poor palpitating heart. Farewell ! " Close on 
this dark hour of anguish came a lawyer's letter urging payment — and no doubt 
hinting at the serious consequences of non-payment — of a haberdasher's account. 
This legal missive served to conjure up before the distracted poet the image of a 
jail with all its horrors, and on the I2th he wrote two letters — one to his cousin 
in Montrose begging an advance of £ 10, and one to Mr. George Thomson im- 
ploring £ 5. "Forgive, forgive me! " He left the sea-side on the i8th, weak 
and feverish, but was able the same day, on arriving at his house in Dumfries, to 
address a second note to James Armour, reiterating the wish expressed six days 
before, but without eliciting any reply : " Do, for Heaven's sake, send Mrs. 
Armour here immediately." From this period he was closely confined to bed 
(according to the statement of his widow), and was scarcely "himself" for half 
an hour together. He was aware of this infirmity, and told his wife that she was 
to touch him and remind him when he was going wrong. One day he got out of 
his bed, and his wife found him sitting in a Corner of the room with the bed- 
clothes about him; she got assistance, and he suffered himself to be gently led 
back to bed. The day before he died he called very quickly and with a hale 
voice, "Gilbert! Gilbert! " On the morning of the 21st, at daybreak, death was 
obviously near at hand, and the children were sent for. They had been removed 
to the 'house of Jessy Lewars and her brother, in order that the poet's dwelling 
might be kept quiet, and they were now summoned back that they might have a 
last look of their illustrious father in life. He was insensible, his mind lost in 

delirium, and, according to his eldest son, his last words were, " That d d 

rascal, Matthew Penn ! " — an execration against the legal agent who had written 
the dunning letter. And so ended this sad and stormy life-drama, and the poet 
passed, as Mr. Carlyle has said, " not softly but speedily into that still country 
where the hail-storms and fire-showers do not reach, and the heaviest-laden way- 
farer at length lays down his load." On the evening of Sunday, the 24th of July, 
the poet's remains were removed from his house to the Town Hall, and nexi day 
were interred with military honors. 





CONTENTS. 




Page 

Biographical Preface v 

POEMS. 

The Twa Dogs i 

Scotch Drink ... 6 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer . . 9 

The Holy Fair 14 

Death and Doctor Hornbook 19 

The Brigs of Ayr 24 

The Ordination 29 

The Calf 30 

Address to the Deil 31 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor 

Mailie, the Author's only Pet Yowe . . 32 

Poor Mailie's Elegy 33 

To James Smith 34 

A Dream 36 

The Vision 38 

Address to the Unco Guid, or the Rigidly 

Righteous 41 

Tarn Samson's Elegy 42 

Halloween 44 

The Jolly Beggars 48 

The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning 

Salutation to his Auld Mare, Maggie . 53 
To a Mouse, on turning her up in her nest 

with the plough 54 

A Winter Night 55 

Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet .... 57 
The Lament, occasioned by the Unfortu- 
nate Issue of a Friend's Amour ... 59 

Despondency 60 

Winter 61 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 61 

Man was made to mourn 65 

A Prayer, in the Prospect of Death ... 66 

Stanzas on the same occasion 67 

Verses left by Burns in a Room where he 

slept 67 

The First Psalm 68 

A Prayer, under the pressure of violent 

anguish . 68 

The First Six Verses of the Ninetieth 

Psalm 68 

To a Mountain Daisy, on turning one 

down with the plough 69 

To Ruin 69 

To Miss Logan, with Beattie's Poems . . 70 

Epistle to a Young Friend 70 

On a Scotch Bard, gone to the West 

Indies 71 

To a Haggis 72 

A Dedication to Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . 72 
To a Louse, on seeing one on a Lady's 

Bonnet at Church 74 



Page 

Address to Edinburgh 75 

Epistle to John Lapraik, an old Scottish 

Bard 75 

To the Same 77 

To William Simpson 78 

Epistle to John Rankine 81 

Written in Friars-Carse Hermitage ... 82 

Ode, Sacred to the Memory of Mrs. Oswald, 83 

Elegy on Capt. Matthew Henderson . . 83 
Lament of Mary Queen of Scots, on the 

Approach of Spring 85 

Epistle to R. Graham, Esq 86 

To Robert Graham, of Fintry, Esq. . . 88 
Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn . . 89 
Lines sent to Sir John Whiteford, of White- 
ford, Bart., with the foregoing Poem. . 90 

Tam O'Shanter 91 

On the late Captain Grose's Peregrinations 

through Scotland 95 

On seeing a Wounded Hare limp by me . 96 
Address to the Shade of Thomson, on 

crowning his Bust at Ednam .... 97 

To Miss Cruikshank 97 

On the Death of John M'Leod, Esq. . . 97 
The Humble Petition of Bruar Water to 

the noble Duke of Athole 98 

The Kirk's Alarm 99 

Address to the Toothache loi 

Written with a Pencil over the Chimney- 
piece, in the Parlour of the Inn at Ken- 
more, Taymouth loi 

On the Birth of a Posthumous Child, born 
in Peculiar Circumstances of Family 

Distress 102 

Written with a Pencil, standing by the Fall 

of Fyers, near Loch-Ness 103 

Second Epistle to Davie, a Brother Poet . 103 
The Inventory of the Poet's Goods and 

Chattels 104 

The Whistle 105 

Sketch, inscribed to the Right Hon. C. J. 

Fox 107 

To Dr. Blacklock 108 

Prologue spoken at the Theatre, Ellisland, 109 

Elegy on the late Miss Burnet .... 109 
The following Poem was written to a gen- 
tleman who had sent him a newspaper, 

and offered to continue it free of expense, 1 10 

Lines on an interview with Lord Daer . . in 
The Rights of Woman. Prologue spoken 

by Miss Fontenelle in 

Address, spoken by Miss Fontenelle . . 112 

Verses to a Young Lady 113 

Poem on Pastoral Poetry 114 

Verses to Chloris, with a copy of the last 

Edition of his Poems 114 

Poetical Address to Mr. William Tytler . 115 




CONTENTS. 



Page 

Sketch. — New- Year Day .116 

Extempore, on Mr. William Smellie . . 116 

Inscription for an Altar to Independence . 117 

Monody on a Lady famed for her Caprice, 117 
Sonnet on the Death of Robert Riddel, 

Esq., of Glenriddel 118 

Impromptu, on Mrs. Riddel's Birthday . 118 

To Miss Jessy Lewars, Dumfries . . . 118 

Verses written under violent grief . . . 119 
Extempore to Mr. Syme, on refusing to 

dine with him 119 

To Mr. Syme 119 

Sonnet, on hearing a Thrush sing . . . 119 

Poem, addressed to Mr. Mitchell .... 120 

Sent to a Gentleman whom he had offended, 120 

Poem on Life 121 

To Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry . . 121 

Epitaph on a Friend 121 

Verses written at Selkirk 122 

Inscription on the Tombstone of the Poet 

Fergusson 123 

A Grace before Dinner 123 

A Verse, repeated on taking leave at a 

place in the Highlands 123 

Liberty 123 

Fragment of an Ode to the Memory of 

Prince Charles Edward Stuart .... 124 

Elegy on the Death of Robert Ruisseaux . 124 
Answer to Verses addressed to the Poet by 

the Guidwife of Wauchope-House . . 125 

To J. Lapraik 125 

The Twa Herds 126 

To the Rev. John M'Math 128 

Holy Willie's Prayer 130 

Epitaph on Holy Willie 131 

On scaring some Water Fowl in Loch- 

Turit 132 

To Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Mauchline . . 132 

Epistle to Mr. M'Adam 133 

To Captain Riddel, Glenriddel .... 133 
Verses intended to be written below a 

noble Earl's Picture i34 

To Terraughty, on his Birthday .... 134 
To a Lady, with a present of a Pair of 

Drinking Glasses i34 

The Vowels i35 

Sketch 135 

Prologue for Mr. Sutherland's Benefit . . 136 

Elegy on the Year 1788 ....... 137 

Verses written under the Portrait of Fer- 
gusson the Poet 137 

Lament, written at a time when the Poet 

was about to leave Scotland .... 1^8 

Delia 138 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair . 138 

To Miss Ferrier 140 

Verses to an old Sweetheart, then married, 140 
The Poet's Welcome to his Illegitimate 

Child 140 

Letter to John Goudie, Kilmarnock . . 141 

Letter to James Tennant, Glenconner . . 141 

Epistle from Esopus to Maria 142 

On a Suicide I44 

A Farewell i44 

The Farewell i44 

Epistle to Robert Graham, Esq 144 

Stanzas on the Duke of Queensberry . . 147 



Page 
Verses on the Destruction of the Woods 

near Drumlanrig 147 

Epistle to Major Logan 148 

Epitaph on the Poet's Daughter .... 149 

Epitaph on Gabriel Richardson .... 149 

On Stirling 149 

Lines on being told that the foregoing 

■Poem would affect his Prospects . . . 150 

The Reply 150 

Epistle to Hugh Parker 150 

Address of Beelzebub 'o the President of 

the Highland Society 150 

To Mr. John Kennedy 151 

On the Death of Robert Dundas, Esq. . 152 

To John M'Murdo, Esq T53 

On the Death of a Lap-dog, named Echo . 153 

Lines written at Loudon iNlanse .... 153 
Orthodox, Orthodox. A Second Version 

of the Kirk's Alarm 153 

The Selkirk Grace 155 

Elegy on the Death of Peg Nicholson . . 155 
On seeing Miss Fontenelle in a favourite 

Character 155 

The League and Covenant 155 

On Miss Jessy Lewars 156 

Epitaph on Miss Jessy Lewars .... 156 

The Recovery of Jessy Lewars . . . . 156 

The Toast 156 

The Kirk of Lamington 156 

Written on a blank leaf of one of Miss 

Hannah More's Works, which she had 

given him 156 

Inscription on a Goblet 157 

The Book-worms 157 

On Robert Riddel 157 

Willie Chalmers 157 

To John Taylor 158 

Lines written on a Bank-note 158 

The Loyal Natives' Verses 158 

Burns's Reply — Extempore 158 

Remorse 158 

The Toad- Eater 159 

. • ■ 159 



160 



160 



" In vain would Prudence " 

" Though fickle Fortune " 

" I burn, I burn" 

Epigram on a noted Coxcomb .... 

Tarn the Chapman 

To Dr. Maxwell, on Miss Jessy Craig's 

Recovery 161 

Fragment 161 

There's Naethin like the honest Nappy . 161 
Prologue, spoken by Mr. Woods on his 

Benefit-night 161 

Nature's Law. A Poem humbly inscribed 

toG. H.,Esq 162 

The Cats like Kitchen 163 

Tragic Fragment 163 

Extempore. On passing a Lady's Carriage, 163 

Fragments 164 

Epitaph on William Nicol 165 

Answer to a Poetical Epistle sent the 

Author by a Tailor 165 

Extempore lines, in answer to a card 

from an intimate Friend of Burns . . 166 
Lines written Extempore in a Lady's 

Pocket-book 167 





CONTENTS. 



Ivii 



Page 

The Henpeck'd Husband .... . 167 

Epitaph on a Henpeck'd Country Squire . 167 

Epigram on said occasion 167 

Another 167 

Verses written on a Window of the Inn at 

Carron 168 

Lines on being asked why God had made 

Miss Davies so little and Mrs. so 

large 168 

Epigram. Written at Inverary .... 168 
A Toast. Given at a meeting of the Dum- 
fries-shire Volunteers 16S 

Lines said to have been written by Burns, 

while on his Deathbed, to John Rankine, i6g 
Verses addressed to J. Rankine .... 169 
On seeing the beautiful seat of Lord Gal- 
loway 169 

On the Same 169 

On the Same 169 

To the Same, on the Author being threat- 
ened with his Resentment 169 

Verses to J. Rankine 170 

Extemporaneous Effusion, on being ap- 
pointed to the Excise 170 

On hearing that there was B'alsehood in 

the Rev. Dr. B 's very Looks . . . 170 

Poverty 170 

On a Schoolmaster in Cleish Parish . . . 170 
Lines written and presented to Mrs. 

Kemble 171 

Lines written on a Window at the King's 

Arms Tavern, Dumfries 171 

Lines written on the Window of the Globe 

Tavern, Dumfries 171 

Extempore in the Court of Session . . . 171 
Lines written under the Picture of Miss 

Burns 172 

On Miss J. Scott, of Ayr 172 

Epigram on Captain Francis Grose . . . 172 
Epigram on Elphinstone's Translation of 

Martial's Epigrams 172 

Epitaph on a Country Laird 172 

Epitaph on a Noisy Polemic 173 

Epitaph on Wee Johnny 173 

Epitaph on a celebrated ruling Elder . . 173 

Epitaph for Robert Aiken, Esq 173 

Epitaph for Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . . . 173 

A Bard's Epitaph 173 

Epitaph on my Father 174 

Epitaph on John Dove 174 

Epitaph on John Bushby 174 

Epitaph on a Wag in Mauchline . . . . 174 
Epitaph on a Person nicknamed " The 

Marquis" 175 

Epitaph on Walter S 175 

On Himself 175 

Grace before Meat 175 

On Commissary Goldie's Brains . . . . 175 

Impromptu 175 

Addressed to a Lady whom the Author 

feared he had offended 175 

Epigram 176 

Lines inscribed on a Platter 176 

To 176 

On Mr. M'Murdo 176 

To a Lady who was looking up the Text 

during Sermon 176 



Page 

Impromptu 176 

To 177 

To a Painter 177 

Lines written on a Tumbler 177 

On Mr. W. Cruikshank, of the High 

School, Edinburgh 177 

SONGS. 

The Lass o' Ballochmyle 178 

Song of Death 178 

My ain kind Dearie O 179 

Auld Rob Morris 179 

Naebody 180 

My Wife's a winsome wee Thing . . . 180 

Duncan Gray 180 

O Poortith 180 

Galla Water 181 

Lord Gregory 181 

Open the Door to Me, oh! 181 

Meg o' the Mill 182 

Jessie 182 

Wandering Willie 183 

Logan Braes 183 

There was a Lass 184 

Phillis the Fair 184 

By Allan Stream 184 

Had I a Cave 185 

Whistle, and I'll come to you, my Lad . 185 

Husband, Husband, cease your Strife . . 186 

Deluded Swain 1S6 

Song 186 

Wilt thou be my Dearie? 186 

Banks of Cree 187 

On the Seas and far away 187 

Hark! the Mavis 187 

She says she lo'es me best of a' . . . . 1S8 

How lang and dreary 188 

The Lover's Morning Salute to his Mis- 
tress 188 

Lassie wi* the lint-white Locks . . . . 189 

The Auld Man 189 

Farewell, thou Stream i8g 

Contented wi' little 190 

My Nannie's awa' 190 

Sweet fa's the Eve 191 

Lassie, art thou sleeping yet? .... 191 

Song 191 

'Twas na her bonie blue Ee 192 

Address to the Woodlark 192 

How cruel are the Parents 192 

Mark yonder Pomp 193 

1 .see a Form, I see a Face 193 

O bonie was yon rosy Brier 193 

Forlorn, my Love 193 

Last May a braw Wooer 194 

Hey for a Lass wi' a Tocher 195 

Altho' thou maun never be mine .... 195 

The Birks of Aberfeldy 196 

The young Highland Rover 196 

Stay, my Charmer 197 

Full well thou know'st 197 

Strathallan's Lament 197 

Raving Winds around her blowing . . . 197 

Musing on the roaring Ocean 197 

Blithe was she 




^ 



^ 



CONTENTS. 



Peggy's Charms 

The lazy Mist 

A Rose-bud by my early Walk . 
Tibbie, I hae seen the Day . . 
I love my Jean ....... 

O, were I on Parnassus' Hill! 

The blissful Day 

The Braes of Ballochmyle . . . 

The happy Trio 

The blue-eyed Lassie .... 
John Anderson my Jo ... . 

Tarn Glen 

Gane is the Day 

My Tocher's the Jewel . . . . 
What can a young Lassie do wi' 



O, for ane and twenty, Tam ! . . . 

The bonie wee Thing 

The Banks of Nith 

Bessy and her Spinnin Wheel. . . 

Country Lassie 

Fair Eliza 

She's fair and fause 

The Posie 

The Banks o' Doon 

■Version printed in the Musical Muse 

Gloomy December 

Behold the Hour 

Willie's Wife 

Afton Water 

Louis, what reck I by thee? . . . 

r.onie Bell 

For the sake of Somebody .... 

< ) May, thy Morn 

The lovely Lass of Inverness . . . 

A red, red Rose 

O, wat ye wha's in yon Town? . . 

A Vision 

O, wen thou in the cauld blast . . 
The Highland Lassie . . . . . 
Jockey's ta'en the parting Kiss . . 

Peggy's Charms 

Up in the Morning early . . . ■ 

Tho' cruel Fate 

I dream'd I lay wherj Flowers 

springing 

Bonie Ann 

My Bonie Mary 

My Heart's in the Highlands . . . 
There's a Youth in this City . . . 
The rantin Dog the Daddie o't . . 
I do confess thou art sae fair , . . . 
Yon wild mossy Mountains . . . 
Wha is that at my Bower Door? . . 

Farewell to Nancy 

The bonie Blink o' Mary's Ee . . 

Out over the Forth 

The bonie Lad that's far away . . 
The gowden Locks of Anna . . . 

Banks of Devon 

Adown winding Nith 

Streams that glide 

The De'il's awa' wi' the Exciseman 
Blithe hae I been on yon Hill . . . 
O were my Love yon Lilac fair . . 

Come, let me take thee 

Where are the Joys? 



Page 

O saw ye my Dear? 218 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie .... 218 

My Chloris 218 

Charming Month of May 219 

Let not Woman e'er complain .... 219 

O Philly 219 

John Barleycorn 220 

Canst-.thou leave me thus? 221 

On Chloris being ill . 221 

When Guilford good our Pilot stood . . 221 

The Rigs o' Barley 222 

Farewell to Eliza 222 

My Nanie, O 223 

Green grow the Rashes 223 

Now westlin Winds 223 

The big-bellied Bottle ....... 224 

The Author's Farewell to his native 

Country 225 

The Farewell 225 

And maun I still on Menie doat .... 225 

Highland Mary 226 

Auld Lang Syne 226 

Bannockburn 227 

The gallant Weaver 227 

Song 227 

For a' that and a' that 227 

Dainty Davie 228 

To Mr. Cunningham 228 

Clarinda 229 

Why, why tell thy Lover? 229 

Caledonia 229 

On the battle of Sheriff-Muir 230 

The Dumfries Volunteers 231 

O wha is she that lo'es me? 231 

Captain Grose 232 

Whistle owre the Lave o't 232 

O, once I lov'd a bonie Lass 232 

Young Jockey 233 

M'Pherson's Farewell 233 

The Dean of Faculty 233 

ril ay ca' in by yon Town 234 

A Bottle and a Friend 234 

I'll kiss thee yet 234 

On Cessnock Banks 234 

Prayer for Mary 235 

Young Peggy 235 

There'll never be Peace till Jamie comes 

hame 236 

There was a Lad 236 

To Mary 236 

Mary Morison 237 

The Soger's Return 237 

My Father was a Farmer 238 

A Mother's Lament for the Death of her 

Son 239 

Bonie Lesley 239 

Amang the Trees 239 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle ... 239 

On Sensibility 239 

Montgomerie's Peggy 240 

On a Bank of Flowers 240 

O raging Fortune's withering Blast . . . 240 

Evan Banks 240 

Women's Minds 241 

To Mary in Heaven 241 

To Mary 242 

O leave Novels 242 




CONTENTS. 



Address to General Dumourier .... 242 

Sweetest May 242 

One Night as I did wander 242 

The Winter it is Past 243 

Fragment 243 

The Chevalier's Lament 243 

The Belles of Mauchline 243 

The Tarbolton Lasses 244 

The Tarbolton Lasses 244 

Here's a Health to them that's awa' . . 245 

I'm owre young to marry yet 246 

Damon and Sylvia . . . . . . . . 246 

My Lady's Gown there's Gairs iipon't . . 246 

O ay my Wife she dang me 247 

The Banks of Nith 247 

Bonie Peg 247 

O lay thy Loof in mine, Lass 247 

O guid Ale comes 247 

O why the Deuce 247 

Polly Stewart 248 

Robin shure in hairst 248 

The five Carlins 248 

The Deuk's dang o'er my Daddie . . . 249 

The Lass that made the Bed to me . . . 249 

The Union . 250 

There was a bonie Lass 250 

My Harry was a Gallant gay 251 

Tibbie Dunbar 251 

Wee Willie 251 

Craigie-burn-wood 251 

Here's his Health in Water ..... 252 

As down the Burn they took their Way . 252 

Lady Onlie ■ • ■ 252 

As I was a wandering 252 

Bannocks o' Barley 253 

Our Thrissles flourished fresh and fair . . 253 

Peg-a-Ramsey 253 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie 253 

Braw Lads of Galla Water 254 

Coming through the Rye 254 

The Lass of Ecclefechan 254 

The Slave's Lament 255 

Had 1 the Wyte 255 

Hee Balou 255 

Her Daddie forbad 255 

Here's to thy Health, my bonie Lass . . 256 

Hey, the dusty Miller 256 

The Cardin o't 256 

The joyful Widower 256 

Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary 257 

The Farewell 257 

It is na, Jean, thy bonie Face 257 

Jamie, come try me 258 

Landlady, count the Lawin 258 

My Love she's but a Lassie yet .... 258 

My Heart was ance 258 

Lovely Davies 259 



Page 

Kenmure's on and awa 259 

The Captain's Lady 259 

Lady Mary Ann 260 

The Highland Widow's Lament .... 260 

Merry hae I been teethin' a Heckle . . 260 

Rattlin', roarin' Willie 261 

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet .... 261 

Sae far awa 262 

O steer her up 262 

O, whar did ye get 262 

The Fete Champetre 262 

Simmer's a pleasant Time 263 

The blude red Rose at Yule may blaw . . 263 

The Highland Laddie 264 

The Cooper o' Cuddie 264 

Nithsdale's welcome Hame 265 

The Tailor 265 

The tither Morn 265 

The Carle of Kellyburn Braes .... 266 

There was a Lass 267 

The weary Pund o' Tow 268 

The Ploughman 268 

The Carles of Dysart 268 

Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray 269 

My Hoggie • . . . . 269 

Where hae ye been 269 

Cock up your Beaver 269 

The Heron Ballads. First Ballad ... 269 

The Election. Second Ballad 270 

An excellent new Song. Third Ballad . . 271 

John Bushby's Lamentation 272 

273 



Ye Sons of Old Kill 
Ye Jacobites by nar 

Song — Ah, Chloris 274 

Whan I sleep I dream 274 

Katharine Jaffray 274 

The Collier Laddie 274 

When I think on the happy Days . . . 274 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the Plain . . . 275 

The Heather was blooming 275 

Wae is my Heart 275 

Eppie M'Nab 276 

An, O! my Eppie 276 

Gudeen to you, Kimmer 276 

O that I had ne'er been married .... 277 

There's News, Lasses 277 

Scroggam _ 277 

Frae the Friends and Land I love . . . 277 

The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith . . . 277 

The bonie Lass of Albany 278 

Song 278 



Appendix : — 

Elegy 280 

Extempore. To Mr. Gavin Hamilton . 280 

Versicles on Sign-posts 281 




CONTENTS TO THE LETTERS. 



No. Page 

I. to IV. To Miss Ellison Begbie . . 285 to 288 

r. To William Bumess 289 

VI. To Mr. John Murdoch .... 290 
VII. Observations, &c., from the Poet 
Commonplace Book, sent 
Mr. Robert Riddel 



299 



XVII. 

XVIII. 

XIX. 



XXII. 
XXIII. 
XXIV. 
XXV. 
XXVI. 
XXVII. 
XXVIII. 

XXIX. 
XXX. 

XXXI. 
XXXII. 
XXXIII. 
XXXIV. 



XLII. 
XLIII. 
XLIV. 
XLV. 



To Mr. James Burnes 
To Miss 

To Miss K . . . 

To Mr. John Richmond 
To Mr. Robert Muir. . 
To Mr. David Brice . . 
To Mr. John Richmond 
To Mr. David Brice . . 
To Mr. John Richmond 
To Mons. James Smith . 
To Mr. John Kennedy , 
To Mr. Robert Muir. . 
To Mr. Burnes . . . 
To Mr. Robert Aiken . 
To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 
To Mrs. Stewart . . , 
To Dr. Mackenzie . . 
To Miss Alexander . . 
To William Chalmers and 

McAdam 

To Mr. Robert Muir. . 
To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 
To James Dalrymple, Esq 
To John Ballantine, Esq. 
To Mr. Robert Muir . 
To Mr. William Chalmers 
To the Earl of Eglinton 
XXVII. To John Ballantine 



To Mrs. Dunlop .... 

To Dr. Moore ..... 

To the Rev. G. Lawrie . 

To Dr. Moore 

To John Ballantine, Esq. . 

To the Earl of Glencairn . 

To the Earl of Buchan . . 

To Mr. James Candlish . . 

To 

viii. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 

To Dr. Moore 

, To Mrs. Dunlop .... 

To the Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair 

To Mr. W. Nicol .• ■ • • 

To Mr. James Smith . . . 
. To William Nicol, Esq. . . 
. To Robert Ainslie, Esq. 



Joh 



No. Page 

LVi. To Mr. J;imes Smith 336 

Lvii. To Mr. John Richmond . . . 338 

Lviii. To Dr. Moore 339 

Lix. To Mr. Robert Muir 347 

LX. To G.avin Hamilton, Esq. . . . 348 

LXi. To Mr. Walker 349 

LXii. To Mr. Gilbert Burns .... 350 
LXlii. LXiv. To Miss M. Chalmers . 351, 352 

LXv. To James Hoy, Esq 352 

Lxvi. To Rev. John Skinner .... 353 

Lxvii. To James Hoy, Esq 354 

Lxviii. To Robert Ainslie, Esq. . . . 355 
LXix. To Miss Mabane [afterwards Mrs. 

Col. Wright] 356 

Lxx. To Miss Chalmers 356 

Lxxi. To Sir John Whitefoord . . . 357 

Lxxii. To Gavin Hamilton 358 

LXXIII. To Miss Chalmers 359 

Lxxiv. to LXXVII. To Mrs. M'Lehose, 360 to 362 

Lxxviii. To Miss Chalmers 363 

LXXIX. To Charles Hay, Esq 363 

Lxxx. To Miss Chalmers 364 

LXXXi. Lxxxii. To Clarinda ... 364 to 366 
Lxxxiii. To Mr. Richard Brown .... 367 
Lxxxiv. to xcii. To Clarinda . . 368 to 376 

xcill. To Miss Chalmers 378 

xciv. To Mrs. Dunlop 379 

xcv. To Robert Graham, Esq. . . . 380 

xcvi. To the Earl of Glencairn . . . 380 

xcvii. to CXI. To Clarinda . . . . 381 to 392 

cxn. To Mr. James Candlish .... 392 

cxiii. To Mrs. Dunlop 393 

cxiv. To the Rev. John Skinner . . . 393 
cxv. To Mr. Richard Brown .... 394 

cxvi. To Miss Chalmers 394 

cxvii. To Mrs. Rose 395 

cxvill. cxix. To Clarinda .... 396, 397 
CXX. To Gavin Hamilton, Esq. . . . 398 
cxxi. To Mr. Richard Brown . . . . 39S 

cxxii. To Clarinda 399 

cxxiii. To Mr. William Cruikshank . . 400 
cxxiv. To Mr. Robert Ainslie .... 400 

cxxv. To — 401 

CXXVI. cxxvii. Sylvander to Clarinda . . 402 
cxxvill. To Mr. Richard Brown . . . 404 

cxxix. To Mr. Robert Muir 405 

cxxx. To Mrs. Dunlop 406 

cxxxi. To Miss Chalmers 406 

cxxxil. to cxxxv. Sylvander to Clarinda, 

407, 408 
cxxxvi. To Mr. Richard Brown . . . .409 
cxxxvil. To Mr. Robert Cleghorn . . . 409 



TT' 




CONTENTS TO THE LETTERS. 



No. Page 

cxxxviii. To Mr. William Dunbar . . .410 

cxxxix. To Miss Chalmers . 

CXL. To Mr. James Smith. 

CXLI. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 

CXLII. To Professor Stewart 

CXLIII. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 

CXLIV. To Mr. Samuel Brown 

CXLV. To Mr. Robert Ainslie 

CXLVI. CXLVII. To Mrs. Dunlop 

CXL.'III. To Mr. Robert Ainslie 

CXLIX. Extract from Commonplace 

Book 

CL. To Mr. Robert Ainslie 
CLi. To Mr. Peter Hill . 
CLii. To Mr. George Lockhart 
CLiii. to CLV. To Mrs. Dunlop . . . 421 
CLVi. To Mr. Beugo . . . 
CLVii. To Miss Chalmers 
CLViii. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
CLix. To Mr. Peter Hill . 
CLX. To the Editor of the " i 
CLXi. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
CLXii. To Dr. Blacklock . . 
CLXiii. To Mr. James Johnson 
CLXiv. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
CLXv. To Miss Davies . . 
CLXvi. To Mr. John Tennant 
CLXVii. To Mr. William Cruikshank 
CLXviii. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
CLXix. To Dr. Moore . . . 
CLXX. To Mr. Robert Ainslie 
CLXXi. To Professor Dugald Stew 
CLXXII. To Bishop Geddes 
CLXXiii. To Mr. James Burness 
CLXXiv. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
CLXXV. To the Rev. P. Carfrae 
CLXXvi. To Clarinda .... 
CLXXVii. To Dr. Moore . . . 
CLXXVlii. To Mr. Hill. . . . 
CLXXix. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
CLxkx. To Mrs. McMurdo . 
CLXXXi. To Mr. Cunningham 
CLXXXii. To Richard Brown . 
CLXXXili. To Mr. James Hamilton 
CLXXXiv. To William Creech . 
CLXXXV. To Mr. McAuley . . 
CLXXXVI. To Mr. Robert Ainslie 
CLXXXVii. To Mr. [Peter Stuart] 
CLXXXviii. To Miss Williams . 
CLXXXix. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
cxc. To Lady Glencairn . 
cxci. To Mr. John Logan . 
cxcii. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
cxcm. To Captain Riddel . 
cxciv. To INIr. Robert Ainslie 
cxcv. To Air. Richard Brown 
cxcvi. To R. Graham, Esq. 
cxcvii. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
cxcYiii. To Sir John Sinclair, 
cxcix. To Lady Winifred M; 
Constable . . . 
cc. To Charles Sharpe, Esq 
CCI. To Mr. Gilbert Burns 
ecu. To Mr. William Dunbar, W.S 
cciii. To Mrs. Dunlop . 
cciv. ToMr. Peter Hill 



Page 

473 
474 
475 
477 
478 
480 



No. 

ccv. Sylvander to Clarinda 
ccvi. To Mr. W. Nicol . . 
ccvii. To Mr. Cunningham 
ccviii. ToMr. Hill. ^ 
ccix. To Mrs. Dunlop 
ccx. To Collector Mitchell 
ccxi. To Dr. Moore . . 
CCXii. To Mr. Murdoch . 
CLXIII. To Mr. McMurdo 
ccxiv. To Mrs. Dunlop . 
ccxv. To Mr. Cunningham 
ccxvi. To Dr. Anderson . 
ccxvii. To Crauford Tail, Esq 

ccxviii. To . . . 

ccxix. To Mrs. Dunlop . 
ccxx. To Mr. Peter Hill 
ccxxi. To A. F. Tytler, Esq 
ccxxii. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
ccxxiii. To the Rev. Arch. Alison 
ccxxiv. To Dr. Moore . . 
ccxxv. To Mr. Cunningham 
ccxxvi. To Mr. Alexander Dalzel 
ccxxvii. To Mrs. Graham . . 
ccxxviii. To the Rev. G. Baird 
ccxxix. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 

ccxxx. To .... 

ccxxxi. To .... 

ccxxxii. To Mr. Cunningham, 
ccxxxiii. To the Earl of Buchan 
ccxxxiv. To Mr. Thomas Sloan 
ccxxxv. To Lady E. Cunningham 
ccxxxvi. To Mr. Ainslie. . . 
ccxxxvii. To Miss Davies . . 
ccxxxviii. to CCXL. Sylvander to 
CCXLI. To Mrs, Dunlop . . 
ccxLii.To Mr. William Smelli^ 
CCXLIII. To Mr. Peter Hill . 
ccxLiv. To Mr. W. Nicol . . 
CCXLV. To Francis Grose, Esq 
CCXLVI. To Mrs Dunlop . . 
CCXLVII. To Mr. Cunningham 
ccxLviii. To Mr. G. Thomson. 
CCXLIX. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 
CCL. To G. Thomson . . 
ecu. CCLII. To Mrs. Dunlop . 
ccLiii. ccLiv. To G. Thomson . 
CCLV. To Miss Fontenelle . 
CCLVI. To a Lady .... 
ccLvii. To Mrs. Riddel . . 
ccLviii. To G. Thomson . . 
CCLix. To R. Graham, Esq. 
CCLX. ccLxi. To Mrs. Dunlop . 
CCLXII. To G. Thomson . . 
CCLXIII. To Clarinda .... 
CCLXI V. To Mr. Cunningham 
CCLXV. To Miss Benson . . 
CCLXVI. To Patrick Miller, Esq. 
ccLxvii. To G. Thomson . . 
CCLXVIII. To John Francis Erskine, 
CCLXIX. To the Earl of Glencairn 
ccLxx. ccLxxi. To G. Thomson . 
CCLXXII. To Mr. Robert Ainslie . 
ccLxxiii. to CCLXXV. To G. Thomson . 530, 53 
CCLXXVI. To Miss Helen Craik 
ccLxxvii. to ccLXXxiv. To G. Thomson, 

533 to 537 



fe, 






CONTENTS TO THE LETTERS. 



Page 
CCLXXXV. To John McMurdo, Esq. . . 537 
CCLXXXVI. To Captain [Robertson of 

Lude?] 538 

CCLXXXVII. To the Earl of Buchan . . .539 

CCLXXXVIII. To Mrs. Riddel 539 

CCLXXXIX. To Mr. Samuel Clark, jun. . 540 

ccxc to ccxcii. To Mrs. Riddel . 540 to 542 

ccxcili. To Mr. Cunningham. . . .542 

ccxciv. To Miss 544 

ccxcv. To Mrs. Dunlop 545 

rcxcvi. To Mr. James Johnson . . . 545 

ccxcvii. To Clarinda 546 

icxcvni. to cccvi. To G. Thomson, 547 to 552 

cccvii. To Peter Miller, jun., Esq. . 553 

cccviii. cccix. To G. Thomson .... 554 

cccx. To Mr. Heron 555 

cccxi. to cccxiii. To G. Thomson . . . 556 

cccxiv. To Mrs. Riddel 557 

cccxv. cccxvi. To Mrs. Dunlop . . 557 to 559 

Notes 

Glossary 

Index 



No. Pag., 

cccxvn. TotheHon. the Provost, Bailies, 

and Town Council of Dumfries 560 
cccxvni. To Mrs. Riddel . .- . . . 560 

cccxix. To Mrs. Dunlop 561 

cccxx. To Mr^. Riddel 561 

cccxxi. cccxxii. To G.Thomson. . . . 562 
cccxxili. To Mr. James Johnson . . . 563 
CCCXXIV. To Mr. Cunningham. . . . 564 
cccxx V. To Mr. Gilbert Burns . . . 564 

cccxxvi. To G. Thomson 565 

cccxxvii. To Mrs. Burns 565 

cccxxvm. To Mrs. Dunlop 565 



cccxxix. To Mr. James Burness . 

cccxxx. To G. Thomson . . . 

cccxxxi. To James Gracie, Esq. . 

cccxxxii. To Mr. James Armour . 

The Border Tour .... 



The Highland Tour 574 

583 

609 

, . . , , 629 



^^ 



THE POEMS 



ROBERT BURNS. 



■S 



POEMS. 




THE TWA DOGS. 

A TALE. 

'TWAS in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King CoiT, 
Upon a bonie day in June, 
When wearing thro' the afternoon, 
Twa dogs, that were na thrang at hame, 
Forgather'd ance upon a time. 

Tlie tirst I'll name, they ca'd him Caesar, 
Was keepit for his Honour's pleasure : 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lugs, 
Shew'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs; 
But whalpit some place far abroad, 
Whare sailors gang to tish for Cod. 

His locked, letter'd, bravv brass collar, 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar; 
But tho' he was o' high degree. 
The fient a pride— nae pride had he; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin, 
Ev'n wi' a tinkler-gipsey's messin. 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, _ 
Nae tawted tyke, tho' e'er sae duddie. 
But he wad stan't, as glad to see him,^ 
An' stroan't on stanes and hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, raving billie, 
Wha for his friend and comrade had him. 
An' in his freaks had Luath ca'd him. 
After some dog in Highland sang, 
Was made lang syne, — Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gnsh an' faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugli or dike. 
His honest, sonsie, Waws'nt face. 
Ay gat him friends in ilka place; 
His breast was white, his touzie back 
Weel cladwi' coat o' glossy black; 
His gawcie tail, wi' upward curl. 
Hung owre his hurdles wi' a swirl. 






THE rWA DOGS. 



If 



Nae doubt but they were fain o' ither. 
An' unco pack an' thick thegither; 
Wi' social nose whyles snuff'd and snowkit; 
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit; 
Whyles sconr'd avva in lang excursion. 
An' worry'd ither in diversion; 
Until wi' daffin weary grown, 
Upon a knovve they sat them down, 
An' there began a lang digression 
About the lords o' the creation. 



I've aften wonder'd, honest Luath, 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents, 
His coals, his kain, an' a' his stents : 
He rises when he likes himsel; 
His flunkies answer at the bell; 
He ca's his coach; he ca's his horse; 
He draws a bonie, silken purse 
As lang's my tail, whare thro' the steaks, 
The yellow letter'd Geordie keeks. 

Frae morn to e'en, it's nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling; 
An' tho' the gentry first are stechin. 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pechan, 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and such like trashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie. 
Our Whipper-in, wee blastit wonner. 
Poor worthless elf, it eats a dinner. 
Better than ony tenant man 
His Honour has in a' the Ian : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit cheir painch in 
I own it's pp.st my comprehension. 




Trowth, Cresar, whyles they're fash't eneugh ; 
A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke. 
Baring a quarry, and siclike, 
Himsel, a wife, he thus sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans. 
An' nought but his han' darg, to keep 
Them right an' tight in thack an' rape. 

An' when they meet wi' sair disasters. 
Like loss o' health, or want o' masters, 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch langer. 
An' they matin starve o' cauld and hunger; 



THE TWA DOGS. 




But, how it comes, I never kend yet. 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented; 
An' buirdly cliiels, an clever hizzies, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 



But then to see how ye're negleckit, 
How huffd, an cuff'd, an' disrespeckit ! 
Lord, man, our gentry care as httle 
For delvers, ditchers, an' sic cattle, 
They gang as saucy by poor folk, 
As I wad by a stinking brock. 

I've notic'd, on our Laird's court-day. 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae, 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash. 
How they maun thole a factor's snash : 
He'll stamp an' threaten, curse an' swear. 
He'll apprehend them, poind their gear; 
While they maun Stan', wi' aspect humble, 
An' hear it a', an' fear an' tremble ! 
I see how folk live that hae riches; 
But surely poor folk maun be wretches. 



They're no sae wretched's ane wad think 
Tho' constantly on poortith's brink : 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gies them little fright. 

Then chance an' fortune are sae guided. 
They're ay in less or mair provided; 
An' tho' fatigu'd v\i' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. 

The dearest comfort o' their lives. 
Their grushie weans an' faithfu' wives : 
The prattling things are just their pride. 
That sweetens a' their fire-side. 

An' vvhyles twalpennie worth o' nappy 
Can mak the bodies unco happy; 
They lay aside their private cares. 
To mind the Kirk and State affairs ; 
They'll talk o' patronage an' priests, 
Wi' kindling fury i' their breasts. 
Or tell what new taxation's comin. 
An' ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmass returnS; 
They get the jovial, ranting kirns, 
When rural life, o' ev'ry station. 
Unite in common recreation; 
Love blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 




THE TWA DOGS. 



That merry day the year begins, 
They l^ar the door on frosty winds; 
The nappy reeks wi' manthng ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring steam; 
The luntin pipe, an' sneeshin mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will; 
The cantie auld folks crackin arouse, 
The young anes ranting thro' the house, — 
My heart has been sac fain to see them. 
That I for joy hae barket wi' them. 

Still its owre true that ye hae said. 
Sic game is now owre aften play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont folk, 
Are riven out baith root an' Ijranch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greed to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the faster 
In favour wi' some gentle Master, 
Wha, aiblins, thrang a parliamentin. 
For Britain's guid his saul indentin — 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it; 
For Britain's guid ! guid faith ! I doubt it. 
Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him. 
An' saying aye or no's they bid him : 
At operas an' plays parading. 
Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading; 
Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 
To Hague or Calais taks a waft. 
To make a tour, an' tak a whirl. 
To learn bon ton an' see the worl'. 

There, at Vienna or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails; 
Or by Madrid he taks the rout. 
To thrum guitars, an' fecht wi' nowt; 
Or down Italian vista startles. 
Whore-hunting amang groves o' myrtles: 
Then bouses drumly German water. 
To mak himsel look fair and fatter. 
An' clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of Carnival Signoras. 
For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction I 



Hech, man ! dear sirs ! is that the gate 
They waste sae mony a braw estate? 
Are we sae fcjughten an' harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last? 



THE TWA DOGS. 



O would they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themsels wi' countra sports, 
It wad for ev'ry ana be better, 
The Laird, the Tenant, an' the Cotter ! 
For thae frank, rantin, ramblin billies, 
Fient haet o' them's ill-hearted fellows; 
Except for breaking o' their timmer. 
Or speaking lightly o' their limmer. 
Or shootin o' a hare or nioor-cock. 
The ne'er-a-bit they're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me, Master Csesar, 
Sure great folk's life's a life o' pleasure? 
Nae cauld nor hunger e'er can steer them. 
The vera thought o't need na fear them. 



Lord, man, were ye but whyles whare I am, 
The gentles ye wad ne'er envy 'em. 

It's true, they need na starve or sweat. 
Thro' winter's cauld, oi simmer's heat; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
An' till auld age wi' grips an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them. 
They mak enow themselves to vex them; 
An' ay the less they hae to sturt them. 
In like proportion, less will hurt them. 



A country fellow at the pleugh. 
His acre's till'd, he's right eneugh; 
A country girl at her wheel. 
Her dizzen's done, she's unco weel : 
But Gentlemen, an' Ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'n down want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank, an' lazy; 
Tho' deil haet ails them, yet uneasy : 
Their days insipid, dull, an' tasteless; 
Their nights unquiet, lang, an' restless; 

An' ev'n their sports, their balls an' races, 
Their galloping thro' public places, 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art. 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 

The men cast out in party-matches. 
Then sowther a' in deep deliauches. 
Ae night, they're mad wi' drink an' whoring, 
Niest day their life is past enduring. 
The Ladies arm-in-arm in clusters. 
As great an' gracious a' as sisters; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither. 
They're a' run deils an' jads thegither. 





SCOTCH DRINK. 



Whyles. owre the wee bit cup an' platie. 
They sip the scandal potion pretty; 
Or lee-lang nights, \vi' crabljit leuks, 
Pore ower the devil's pictur'd beuks; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stackyard, 
An' cheat like ony unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exceptions, man an' woman; 
But this is Gentry's life in common. 

By this, the sun was out o' sight. 
An' darker gloamin brought the night : 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, 
The kye stood rowtin i' the loan; 
When up they gat, an' shook their lugs, 
Rejoic'd they were na men but dogs ; 
An' each took aff his several way, 
Resolv'd to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 



Gic him strong drink, until he mink. 

That's sinking in despair; 
An' liquor gnid to fire his bluid. 

That s f rest ivi'' grief an' eare; 
There let him bouse, an' deep carouse, 

II' i' bumpers floiving o'er. 
Till lie forgets his loves or debts. 

An minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. 6, 7. 



Let other Poets raise a fracas 

'Bout vines, an' wines, an' drunken Bacchus, 

An' crabbit names an' stories wrack us, 

An' grate our lug, 
I sing the juice Scotch bear can mak us. 

In glass or jug. 

O thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scotch Drink, 
Whether thro' wimplin worms thou jink, 
Or, richly brown, ream owre the brink, 

In glorious faem. 
Inspire me, till I lisp an' wink. 

To sing thy name ! 



Let husky Wheat the haughs adorn. 
An' Aits set up their awnie horn. 
An' Pease an' Beans at een or morn, 

Perfume the plain, 
Leeze me on thee, John Barleycorn, 

Thou King o' grain! 





SCOTCH DRINK. 



On thee aft Scotland chows her cood, 
Ir> souple scones, the wale o' food ! 
Or tuniblin in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the vvame, an' keeps us livin ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin, 
When heavy-dragg'd wi' pine an' gvievin ; 

But oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down-hill, scrievin, 

Wi' rattlin glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear: 
Thou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; 
Thou strings the nerves o' Labour sair, 

At's weary toil : 
Thou even brightens dark Despair 

Wi' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy, siller weed, 
Wi' (Gentles thou erects thy head; 
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need, 

.The poor man's wine, 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread. 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

But thee, what were our fairs and rants ? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspir'd. 
When gaping they besiege the tents. 

Are doubly fir'd. 

That merry night we get the corn in ! 
O sweetly, then, thou reams the horn in ! 
Or reekin on a New-Year mornin 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in. 

An' gusty sucker ! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath, 
An' ploughmen gather wi' their graith, 
O rare ! to see thee fizz an' freath 

I' th' lugget caup ! 
Then Burnewin comes on like Death 

At ev'ry chaup. 






SCOTCH DRINK. 



Nae mercy, then, for airn or steel ; 
The brawnie, banie, ploughman chiel, 
Brings hard ovvrehip, \vi' sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer. 
Till block an' studdie ring an' reel 

Wi' dinsome clamour. 



When skirlin weanies see the light, 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight, 

Wae worth the name ! 
Nae Howdie gets a social night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea. 
An' just as wud as wud can be. 
How easy can the barley-bree 

Cement the quarrel ! 
It's aye the cheapest Lawyer's fee, 

To taste the barrel. 



Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason ! 
But monie daily weet their weason 

Wi' liquors, nice. 
An' hardly, in a winter's season. 

E'er spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash ! 
Fell source o' monie a pain an' brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drulcen hash, 

O' half his days ; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 



Ye Scots, wha wish auld Scotland well. 
Ye chief, to you my tale I tell. 
Poor plackless devils like mysel' 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter, dearthfu' wines to mell, 

Or foreign gill. 



May gravels round his blather wrench. 
An' gouts torment him, inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sour disdain. 
Out owre a glass o' Whisky punch 

WI' honest men ! 





THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AXD PRAYER. 



O Whisky ! soul o' plays an' pranks ! 
Accept a Bardie's gratefu' thanks ! 
"When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes they rattle i' their ranks 

At ither's a— s ! 

Thee, Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland, lament frae coast to coast ! 
Now colic-grips, an' barkin hoast. 

May kill us a' ; 
For loyal P'orbes' charter'd boast 

Is ta'en awa ! 

Thae curst horse-leeches o' th' Excise, 
Wha mak the Whisky Stells their prize 1 
Haud up thy han', Deil ! ance, twice, thrice ! 

There, seize the blinkers ! 
An' bake them up in brunstane pies 

For poor damn'd drinkers 

Fortune ! if thou'U but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, 
An' rowth o' rhyme to rave at will, 

Tak' a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER. 



TO THE RIGHT HONOURABLE 



S-D HONOURABLE THE SCOTCH REPRESENTATIVES 
HOUSE OF COMMONS. 



Dearest cf DisiiUaiion .' last and best — 

How art thou lost ! 

Parodv on Milton. 

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent our brughs an' shires. 
An' doucely manage our affairs 

In Parliament, 
To you a simple Bardie's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 



Alas! my roupet Muse is hearse; 

Your Honours' heart wi' grief 'twad pierce. 

To see her sitten on her a — 

Low i' the dust. 
An' scriechin out prosaic verse. 

An' like to brust ! 




*^ 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST 



Tell them wha liae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great atitiiction, 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On Aquavits; 
An' rouse them up to strong conviction, 

An' move their pity. 

Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Youth, 

The honest, open, naked truth : 

Tell him o' mine an' Scotland's drouth. 

His servants humble : 
The muckle devil blaw ye south. 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glunch an' gloom ? 
Speak out, an' never fash your thumb ! 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em ; 
If honestly they canna come. 

Par better want 'em. 

In gath'rin votes you were na slack; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack ; 
Ne'er claw your lug, an' tidge your back. 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But raise your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a'. 

Paint Scotland greetin owre her thrissle ; 
Her mutchkin stoup as toom's a whissle : 
An' damn'd Excisemen in a bussle. 

Seizin a Stell, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her, 

A blackguard Smuggler, right behint her, 

An' cheek-for-chow, a chuffie Vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as Winter 

Of a' kind coin. 



Is there, that bears the name o' Scot, 
But feels his heart's bluid rising hot. 
To see his poor aukl Mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plunder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves? 

Alas ! I'm but a nameless wight, 
Trode i' the mire out o' sight ! 




ill: 



CR Y AND PR A YER. 



But could I like Montgomeries fight, 
Or gab like Boswell, 

There's some savk-necks I wad draw tight, 
An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your Honours, can ye see't. 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet. 

An' gar them hear it? 
An' tell them, wi' a patriot-heat. 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' you nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' «ith rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues; 
Then echo thro' Saint Stephen's wa's 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true blue Scot I'se warran; 
Thee, aith-detesting, chaste Kilkerran ; 
An' that glib-gabbet Highland Baron, 

The Laird o' Graham; 
An' ane, a chap that's damn'd auldfarran, 

Dundas his name. 

Ersldne, a spunkie Norland billie; 
True Campbells, Frederick an' Hay; 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir WiUie ; 

An' monie ithers. 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tully 

Might own for brithers. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mettle, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle; 
Or faith ! I'll wad my new pleugh-pettle, 

Ye'll see't or lang, 
She'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in crankous mood, 
Her lost Militia fir'd her bluid; 
(Deil na they never mair do guid, 

Play'd her that pliskie !) 
An' now she's like to rin red-wud 

•About her Whisky. 

An' Lord, if ance they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt. 
An' durk an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt, 

r th' first she meets! 




w 




THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST 



For God sake, Sirs ! then speak her fair, 
An' straikher cannie wi' the hair. 
An' to the inuckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed, 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 



Yon ill tongu'd tinkler, Charlie Fox, 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks; 
But gie him't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the cadie ! 
An' send him to his dicing-box 

An' sportin lady. 

Tell yon guid bluid o' auld Boconnock's 
I'll be his debt twa mashlum bonnocks. 
An' drink his health in auld Nanse Tinnock 

Nine times a-week. 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 

Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in giiid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach 

Nor erudition. 
Yon mixtie-maxlie queer hotch-potch. 

The Coalition. 



Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung: 
An' if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support yc; 
Then, though a Minister grow dorty. 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'U snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 



God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowps o' kail an' brats o' claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie's ! 
Your humble Bardie sings an' prays 

While Rab his name is. 






CE Y AND PR A YER. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starv'd slaves, in warmer skies, 
See future wines, rich-clust'ring, rise; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

But blythe an' frisky, 
She eves her free-born, martial boys, 

Tak aff their Whisky. 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms an' beauty charms ! 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms. 

The scented groves. 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; 
They downa bide the stink o' powther; 
Their bauldest thought's a liank'ring swither 

To Stan' or rin. 
Till skelp — a shot — they're aff, a' throwther, 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill. 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill. 
Say, such is royal George's will. 

An' there's the foe, 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 

Nae cauld, faint-hearted doubtings tease him : 
Death comes, wi' fearless eye he sees him; 
Wi' bluidy han' a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 
His latest draught o' breathin lea'es him 

In faint huzzas. 



Sages their solemn een may steek. 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physically causes seek. 

In clime an' season ; 
But tell me Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Alither ! 
The' whyles ye moistify your leather, 
Till whare ye sit, on craps o' heather. 

Ye tine your dam: 
Freedom and W'hisky gang thegither ! 

Tak aff your dram ! 




THE HOL y FAIR. 



THE HOLY FAIR. 



A robe of si-ctiiing truth and trust 

Hid crafty Obsmuilio,, ; 
And secret 'lium;. H'ith poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd. 

Dye-varying on the pigco7i ; 
And for a mantle large and broad. 

He iura/>t him in Religion. 

Hypocrisy a-la-mode. 



Upon a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I wallced forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caller air. 
The risin' sun, owre Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin; 
The hares were hirplin down the furrs, 

The lav'rocks they were chantin 

Fu' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad. 

To see a scene sae gay, 
Three Hizzies, early at the road. 

Cam skelpin up the way. 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

But ane wi' lyart lining; 
The third, that gaed a wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining 

Fu' gay that day. 

The twa appear'd like sisters twin, 

In feature, form, an' claes; 
Their visage wither'd, lang an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slaes : 
The third cam up, hap-step-an'-lowp, 

As light as ony lambie, 
An' wi' a curchie low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 

Fu' kind that day. 




Wi' bonnet aff, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me; 
I'm sure I've seen that bonie face. 

But yet I canna name ye." 
Quo' she, an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' taks me by the ban's. 
" Ye, for my sake, hae gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten comman's 

A screed some day. 




w 



^ 



T//£ HOL Y FAIR. 



" My name is P'un — your cronie dear, 

The nearest friend ye hae; 
An' this is Superstition here, 

An' that's Hypocrisy. 
I'm gaun to Mauchhne Holy Fair, 

To spend an hour in daffin : 
Gin ye'll go there, yon runkl'd pair, 

We will get famous laughin 

At them this day." 

Quoth I, " With a' my heart, I'll do't; 

I'll get my Sunday's sark on. 
An' meet you on the holy spot; 

Faith, we'se hae tine remarkin ! " 
Theu I gaed hame at crovvdie-time, . 

An' soon I made me ready; 
For . jads were clad, frae side to side, 

Wi' monie a wearie bodie, 

In droves that day. 

Here, farmers gash, in ridin graith 

Gaed hoddin by their cotters, 
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith. 

Are springin owre the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin barefit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter ; 
Wi' sweet-milk cheese, in monie a whang, 

An' farls, bak'd wi' butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up wi' ha'pence, 
A greedy glovvr Black Bonnet throws. 

An' we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show. 

On ev'ry side they're gath'rin. 
Some carryin dails, some chairs an' stools. 

An' some are busy bleth'rin 

Right loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs. 

An' screen our countra gentry; 
There, racer Jess, an' twa-three whores, 

Are blinkin at the entry. 
Here sits a raw o' tittlin jades, 

Wi' heaving breast an' bare neck, 
An' there, a batch o' wabster lads, 

Blackguarding frae Kilmarnock 

For fun this day. 






THE HOL Y FAIR. 



Here, some are thinkin on their sins, 

An' some upo' their claes; 
Ane curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays : 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

\Vi' screvv'd up, grace-proud faces; 
On that, a set o' chaps, at watch, 

Thrang winkin on the lasses 

To chairs that day. 




O happy is that man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him ! 
Wha's ain dear lass, that he likes best. 

Comes clinkin down beside him ! 
Wi" arm repos'd on the chair-back, 

He sweetly does compose him; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck, 

An's loof upon her bosom 

Unkend that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation; 
For Moodie speels the holy door, 

Wi' tidings o' damnation. 
Should Hornie, as in ancient days, 

'Mang sons o' God present him. 
The vera sight o' Moodie's face, 

To's ain het hame had sent him 

Wi' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o' faith 

Wi' rattlin an wi' thumpin ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath, 

He's stampin an' he's jumpin ! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turned-up snout. 

His eldritch squeel an' gestures, 
O how they fire the heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 

On sic a dav ! 



But, hark ! the tent has chang'd its voice; 

There's peace an' rest nae langer : 
For a' the real judges rise, 

They canna sit for anger. 
Smith opens out his cauld harangues, 

On practice and on morals; 
An' aff the godly pour in thrangs, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 

A lift that day. 





THE IIOL Y FAIR. 



What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs an' reason? 
His English style, an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 

In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum ; 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit. 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God 

An' meek an mim has view'd it, 
While Common Sense has ta'en the road, 

An' aff, an' up the Cowgate 

Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee Miller, neist, the Guard relieves. 

An' Orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes. 

An' thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith I the birkie wants a Manse, 

So, cannilie he h-ums them; 
Altho' his carnal wit an' sense 

Like hafflins-wise o'ercomes him 

At times that day. 

Now, butt an' ben, the Change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-caup Commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes an' gills, 

An' there the pint-stowp clatters; 
While thick an' thrang, an' loud an' lang^ 

Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture, 
They raise a din, that in the end 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 






Leeze me on Drink ! it gi'es us mair 

Than either School or College : 
It kindles Wit, it waukens Lair, 

It pangs us fou o' Knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep. 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinkin' deep. 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 



-7=\- 





THE HOLY FAIR 



The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul an' body, 
Sit round the table, weel content. 

An' steer about the toddy. 
On this ane's dress, an' that ane's leuk, 

They're makin observations; 
While some are cozie i' the neuk, 

An' formin assignations 

To meet some day. 



But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin, 
An' echoes back return the shouts ; 

Black Russel is na spairin : 
His piercing words, like Highlan swords, 

Divide the joints an' marrow; 
His talk o' Hell, where devils dwell, 

Our vera " sauls does harrow " 

Wi' fright that day ! 



A vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin brunstane' 
Wha's ragin flame, an' scorchin heat. 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

An' think they hear it roarin. 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neebor snorin 

Asleep that day. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill. 

When they were a' dismist : 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the farms and benches; 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps. 

Was dealt about in lunches. 

An' dawds that day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash Guidwife, 

An' sits down by the tire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld Guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother. 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

An' gi'es them't like a tether, 

Fu' lang that day. 



rT7q= 





Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething ! 
Snia' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his braw claithing ! 
O Wives, be mindfu', ance yoursel 

How bonie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna, for a kebbuck-heel, 

Let lasses be affronted 

On sic a day ! 



Now Clinkumbell, wi' rattling tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon; 
Some swagger hame, the best they dow. 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a bhnk, 

Till lasses strip their shoon : 
Wi' faith an' hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses ! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane 

As saft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine. 

There's some are fou o' brandy; 
An' monie jobs that day begin. 

May end in Houghmagandie 

Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 



A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end. 
And some great lies were never penn'd : 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing whid, at times, to vend. 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 



But this that I am gaun to tell, 
WTiich lately on a night befell. 
Is just as true's the Deil's in hell 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel 

's a muckle pity. 




DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 



The Clachan yill had made me canty, 

I wasna fou, but just had plenty; 

I stacher'd whyles, but yet took tent ay 

To free the ditches; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd ay 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glowr 
The distant Cumnock hills out-ovvre : 
To count her horns, \vi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I cou'd na tell. 

I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff, wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker; 
Tho' leeward whyles, against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather. 

That pat me in an eerie swither; 

An awfu' scythe, out-owre ae shouther, 

Clear-dangling, hang : 
A three-taed leister on the ither 

Lay, large an' lang. 

Its stature seem'd bng Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw. 
For fient a wame it had ava, 

And then its shanks. 
They were as thin, as sharp an' smti' 

As cheeks o' branks. 

"Guid-een," quo' I; "Friend! haeyebeen mawin. 
When ither folk are busy sawin? " 
It seem'd to mak a kind o' stan'. 

But naething spak; 
At length, says I, " Friend, whare ye gaun, 

Will ye go back?" 

It spak right howe — " My name is Death, 
But be na fley'd." —Quoth I, " Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap my breath; 

But tent me, billie: 
I red ye weel, tak car o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully ! " 

"Gudeman," quo' he, "put up your whittle, 
I'm no design'd to try its mettle; 



^€3^ 




DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 



But if I ilid, I wad be kittle 

To be mislear'd, 
I wad na mind it, no that spittle 

Out-ovvre my beard." 

"Weel, weel ! " says I, " a bargain be't; 
Come, gies your hand, an' sae we're gree't; 
We'll ease our shanks an' tak a seat, 

Come gies your news; 
This while ye hae been mony a gate, 

At mony a house." 

"Ay, ay ! " quo' he, an' shook his head, 
" It's e'en a lang, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread, 

An' choke the breath: 
Folk maun do something for their bread, 

An' sae maun Death. 

" Sax thousand years are near-hand fled, 

Sin' I was to the butching bred, 

An' mony a scheme in vain's been laid. 

To stap or scaur me; 
Till ane Hornbook's ta'en up the trade. 

An' faith, he'll waur me. 

" Ye ken Jock Hornbook i' the Claclian, 
Deil mak his king's-hood in a spleuchan ! 
He's grown sae well acquaint wi' Buchan 

An' ither chaps. 
The weans baud out their fingers laughin 

And pouk my hips. 

" See, here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae pierc'd mony a gallant heart; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi' his art 

And cursed skill. 
Has made them baith no worth a f — t, 

Damn'd haet they'll kill. 

" 'Twas but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

I threw a noble throw at ane; 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain: 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just play'd dirl on the bane. 

But did nae mair. 

*' Hornbook was by, wi' ready art, 
And had sae fortify'd the part. 
That when I looked to my dart. 

It was sae blunt, 
J"ient haet o't wad hae pierc'd the heart 

O' a kail-runt. 






DEA7H AXD DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 

" I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I near-hand cowpit \vi' my hurry, 
But yet the bauld Apothecary 

Withstood the shuck; 
I might as weel hae try'd a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

" E'en them he canna get attended, 
Ahho' their face he ne'er had kend it. 
Just sh — in a kail-blade, and send it. 

As soon's he smells't, 
Baith their disease, and \\hat will mend it. 
At once he tells't. 

" And then, a' doctor's saws and whittles. 
Of a' dimensions, shapes, an' mettles, 
A' kinds o' boxes, mugs, an' bottles, 

He's sure to hae; 
Their Latin names as fast he rattles 

As A B C. 

"Calces o' fossils, earths, and trees; 
True Sal-marinum o' the seas; 
The Farina of beans and pease, 

He has't in plenty; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

" P'orbye some new, uncommon weapons, 

Urinus Spiritus of capons; 

Or Mite-horn shavings, tilings, scrapings, 

Distill'd per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' Midge-tail clippings, 

And mony mae." 

" Waes me for Johnny (.ied's Hole now," 
Quoth I, " if that thae news be true ! 
His braw calf-ward whare gowans grew, 

Sae white and bonic, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plew; 

They'll ruin Johnnie ! 

The creature grain'd an eldritch laugh. 
And says, " Ye needna yoke the pleugh. 
Kirk-yards will soon be till'd eneugh, 

Tak ye nae fear : 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a sheugh 

In twa-three year. 






DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 



" Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae-death, 
By loss o' blood or want of breath, 
This night I'm ^ree to tak my aith, 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith, 

By drap and pill. 

" An honest Wabster to his trade, 

Whase wife's twa nieves were scarce well-bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair; 
The wife slade cannie to her bed, 

But ne'er spak mair. 

"A countra Laird had ta'en the batts, 
Or some curmurring in his guts. 
His only son for Hornbook sets, 

An' pays him well. 
The lad, for twa guid gimmer-pets, 

Was Laird himsel. 



" Abonie lass, ye kend her name, 

Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame : 

She trusts hersel, to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame, 

To hide it there. 



"That's just a swatch o' Hornbook's way; 
Thus goes he on from day to day. 
Thus does he poison, kill, an' slay, 

An's weel pay'd for't; 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

Wl' his damn'd dirt. 



" But, hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Tho' dinna ye be speaking o't; 
I'll nail the self-conceited Sot 

As dead's a herrin : 
Niest time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his fairin ! " 

But just as he began to tell, 

The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell 

Some wee, short hour ayont the twal. 

Which rais'd us baith 
I took the way that pleas'd m_ysel, 

And sac did Death. 




24 THE BRIGS OF A YR. 



THE BRIGS OF AYR. 

A POEM. 
INSCRIBED TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ., AYR. 

The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough, 

Learning his tuneful trade from ev'ry bough; 

The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush; 

Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green thorn bush; 

The soaring lark, the perching red-breast shrill. 

Or deep-ton'd plovers, grey, wild-whistling o'er the hill. 

Shall he, nurst in the Peasant's lowly shed, 

To hardy independence bravely bred, 

By early poverty to hardship steel'd. 

And train'd to arms in stern Misfortune's held; 

Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 

The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes? 

Or labour hard the panegyric close. 

With all the venal soul of dedicating Prose? 

No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings. 

And throws his hand uncouthly o'er the strings. 

He glows with all the spirit of the Bard, 

Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 

Still, if some Patron's gen'rous care he trace, 

Skill'd in the secret, to bestow with grace; 

When Ballantyne befriends his humble name 

And hands the rustic Stranger up to fame. 

With heartfelt throes his grateful bosom swells 

The godlike bliss, to give, alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter-hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap; 
Potatoe-bings are snugged up frae skaith 
O' coming Winter's biting, frosty breath; 
The bees, rejoicing o'er their summer toils, 
Unnumber'd buds and flow'rs, delicious spoils, 
Seal'd up with frugal care in massive waxen piles. 
Are doom'd by Man, that tyrant o'er the weak. 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone reek : 
The thund'ring guns are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; 
The feather'd field-mates, bound by Nature's tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 



THE BRIGS OF A YR. 



(What warm, poetic heart, but inly bleeds. 

And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds !) 

Nae mair the flovv'r in field or meadow springs; 

Nae mair the grove with airy concert rings, 

Except perhaps the Robin's whistling glee, 

Proud o' the height o' some bit half-lang tree : 

The hoary morns precede the sunny days, 

Mild, calm, serene, wide spreads the noontide blaze, 

"While thick the gossamour waves wanton in the rays. 

'Twas in that season; when a simple Bard, 

Unknown and poor, simplicity's reward, 

Ae night, within the ancient brugh of Ayr, 

By whim inspir'd, or haply prest wi' care, 

He left his bed and took his wayward rout. 

And down by Simpson's wheel'd the left about : 

(Whether impell'd by all-directing Fate, 

To witness what I after shall narrate; 

Or whether, rapt in meditation high, 

He wander'd out he knew not where nor why :) 

The drowsy Dungeon clock had number'd two, 

And Wallace Tow'r had sworn the fact was true : 

The tide-swoln Firth, wi' sullen-sounding roar, 

Through the still night dash'd hoarse along the shore 

All else was hush'd as Nature's closed e'e; 

The silent moon shone high o'er tow'r and tree : 

The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 

Crept, gently-crusting, owre the glittering stream. — 

When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning Bard, 
The clanging sugh of whistling wings is heard; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air, 
Swift as the Gos drives on the wheeling hare; 
Ane on th' Auld Brig his airy shape uprears. 
The ither flutters o'er the rising piers : 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry'd 
The Sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(That Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
And ken the lingo of the sp'ritual folk; 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain them. 
And ev'n the vera deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd o' ancient Pictish race. 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face : 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had wars^l'd lang. 
Yet, teughly doure, he bade an unco bang. 
New Brig was buskit, in a braw new coat. 
That he, at Lon'on, frae ane Adams got; 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls an' whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious search. 
Spying the time-worn flaws in ev'ry arch; 
It chanc'd his new-come neebor took his e'e, 
And e'en a vex'd and angry heart had he ! 




THE BRIGS OF A YR. 



Wi' thieveless sneer to see his modish mien, 
He, down the water, gies him this guid-een : — 

AULD BRIG. 

I doubt na, Frien', ye'll think ye're nae sheep-shank, 
Ance ye were streekit owre frae bank to bank ! 
But gin ye be a brig as auld as me, 
Tho', faith! that date, I doubt, ye'll never see; 
There'll be, if that day come, I'll wad a boddle. 
Some fewer whigmeleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIG. 

Auld Vandal, ye but show your little niense, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense; 
Will your poor, narrow foot-path of a street, 
Where twa \\'heel-barrows tremble when they meet, 
Your ruin'd, formless bulk o' stane and lime. 
Compare wi' bonie Brigs o' modern time? 
There's men of taste wou'd tak the Ducat-stream, 
Tho' they should cast the vera sark and swim, 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the view 
O' sic an ugly, Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG. 

Conceited gowk ! pufPd up wi' windy pride ! 
This mony a year I've stood the flood an' tide ; 
And tho' wi' crazy eild I'm sair forfairn, 
I'll be a Brig, when ye're a shapeless cairn ! 
As yet ye little ken about the matter, 
Bat twa-three winters will inform ye better. 
When heavy, dark, continued, a'-day rains, 
Wi' deepening deluges o'erflow the plains; 
When from the hills where springs the brawling Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil. 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland course 
Or haunted Garpal draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds an' spotting thowes; 
In mony a torrent down his snaw-broo rowes ; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring spate, 
Sweeps dams, an' mills, an' brigs, a' to the gate ; 
And from Glenbuck, down to the Ratton-key, 
Auld Ayr is just one lengthen'd, tumbling sea; 
Then down ye'll hurl, deil nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the gumlie jaups up to the pouring skies. 
A lesson sadly teaching, to your cost. 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NKW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say't o't; 
The Lord be thankit that we've tint the gate o't ! 
Gaunt, ghastly, ghaist-alluring edifices. 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices : 




^^r 




THE BRIGS OF A YR. 




O'er arching, mouldy, gloom-inspiring coves, 

Supporting roofs, fantastic, stony groves : 

Windows and doors in nameless sculptures drest, 

With order, symmetry, or taste unblest; 

Forms like some bedlam Statuary's dream, 

The craz'd creations of misguided whim; 

Forms might be worshipp'd on the bended knee, 

And still the second diead command be free. 

Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or sea. 

Mansions that would disgrace the building taste 

Of any mason reptile, bird, or beast ; 

Fit only for a doited monkish race, 

Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embrace. 

Or cuifs of later times, wha held the notion, 

That sullen gloom was sterling, true devotion; 

Fancies that our guid Brugh denies protection. 

And soon may they expire, unblest with resurrection ! 

AULD BRIG. 

O ye, my dear-remember'd, ancient yealins. 
Were ye but here to share my wounded feelings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' mony a Bailie, 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil ay; 
Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveeners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey-cleaners ! 
Ye godly Councils wha hae blest this town ; 
Ye godly Brethren o' the sacred gown, 
Wha meekly gie your hurdles to the smiters; 
And (what would now be strange) ye godly Writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do ! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexation, 
To see each melancholy alteration; 
And agonizing, curse the time and place 
When ye begat the base, degen'rate race ! 
Nae langer Rev'rend Men, their country's glory, 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid story 
Nae langer thrifty Citizens, an' douce, 
Meet owre a pint, or in the Council-house; 
But staunirel, corky-headed, graceless Gentry, 
The herryment and ruin of the country ; 
Men, three-parts made by Tailors and by Barbers, 
Wha waste your weel-hain'd gear on damn'd new Brigs 
and Harbours ! 



Now baud you there ! faith ye've said enough, 
And muckle mair than ye can mak to through : 
As for your Priesthood, I shall say Init little, 
Corbies and Clergy are a shot right kittle : 





THE BRIGS OF A YR. 



But, under favour o' your langer beard. 

Abuse o' Magistrates might weel be spar'd : 

To liken them to your auld-vvarld squad, 

I must needs say, comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, Wag-wits nae mair can have a handle 

To mouth " a Citizen," a term o' scandal : 

Nae mair the Council waddles down the street, 

In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; 

Men wha grew wise priggin owre hops an' raisins, 

Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins. 

If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 

Had shor'd them wi' a glimmer of his lamp. 

And would to Common-sense for once betray'd them, 

Plain, dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 

What farther cJishmaclaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed, 
No man can tell; but all before their sight 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glittering stream they featly danc'd; 
Bright to the moon their various dresses glanc'd : 
They footed o'er the the wat'ry glass so neat. 
The infant ice scarce bent beneath their feet : 
While arts of Minstrelsy among them rung, 
And soui-ennobling Bards heroic ditties sung. 
O had M'Lauchlan, thairm-inspiring sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly band engage, 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with Highland rage. 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting airs, 
The lover's raptur'd joys or bleeding cares ; 
How would his Highland lug been nobler hr'd, 
And ev'n his matchless hand with finer touch inspir'd ! 
No guess could tell what instrument appear'd. 
But all the soul of Music's self was heard; 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
W^hile simple melody pour'd moving on the heart. 

The Genius of the Stream in front appears, 
A venerable Chief, advanc'd in years; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd. 
His manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Next came the loveliest pair in all the ring, 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with Spring; 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay, came Rural Joy, 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eye : 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn, 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding corn; 
Then Winter's time-bleach'd locks did hoary show, 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow; 
Next follow'd Courage \\ith his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide ; 
Benevolence, with mild, benignant air, 
A female form, came from the tow'rs of Stair : 




^ 










X 


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It 


F 






... 


\ THE ORDINATION. 29 ii. 




Learning and Worth in equal measures trode 






From simple Catrine, their 


ong-lov'd abode : i 








Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown"d with a hazel wreath, 1 1 1 






J 


^ To rustic Agriculture did bequeath ^{^ 






The broken, iron instruments of death : 






At sight of whom our Sprites forgat their kindling wrath. 






THE ORDINATION. 






J^or sense, they little 


owe to frugal Heav'n — 






To please the mob, they hide the little giv'n. 






Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw, 


There, try his mettle on the creed, 






An' pour your creeshie nations; 


And bind him down wi' caution, 






An' ye wha leather rax an' draw, 


That Stipend is a carnal weed 






Of a' denominations; 


He takes but for the fashion ; 






Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a', 


An' gie him o'er the flock, to feed, 






An' there tak up your stations; 


And punish each transgression; 






Then aff to Begbie's in a raw. 


Especial, rams that cross the breed, 






An' pour divine libations 


Gie them sufficient threshin, 






For joy this day. 


Spare them nae day. 






Curst Common-sense, that imp o' hell, 


Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 






Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder ; 


An' toss thy horns fu' canty; 






But Oliphant aft made her yell. 


Nae mair thou'lt rowte out-owre the dale, 






An' Russel sair misca'd her; 


Because thy pasture's scanty; 






This day M'Kinlay takes the flail. 


For lapfu's large 0' gospel kail 






An' he's the boy will blaud her ! 


Shall fill thy crib in plenty, 






He'll clap a shangan on her tail. 


An' runts 0' grace the pick an' wale, 






An' set the bairns to daud her 


No gi'en by way 0' daintv. 






Wi' dirt this day. 


But ilka day. 






Mak haste an' turn king David owre. 


Nae mair by Babel streams we'll weep. 






An' lilt wi' holy clangor ; 


To think upon our Zion; 






O' double verse come gie us four, 


And hing our fiddles up to sleep, 






An' skirl up the Bangor : 


Like baby-clouts a-dryin : 






This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 


Come, screw the pegs wi' tunefu' cheep^ 






Nae mair the knaves shall wrang her. 


And o'er the thairms be tryin; 






For Heresy is in her pow'r. 


Oh rare ! to see our elbucks wheep, 






And gloriously she'll whang her 


And a' like lamb-tails flyin 






Wi' pith this day. 


Fu' fast this day ! 






Come, let a proper text be read, 


Lang, Patronage, wi' rod 0' airn, 






An' touch it off wi' vigour, 


Has shor'd the Kirk's undoin, 






How graceless Ham leugh at his Dad, 


As lately Fenwick, sair forfairn. 






, W^hich made Canaan a niger : 


Has proven to his ruin : 






. 


n Or Phineas drove the murdering blade, 


Our Patron, honest man ! Glencairn, ^ 


' 






Wi' whore-abhorring rigour; 


He saw mischief was brewin; 








Or Zipporah, the scauldin jad. 


And like a godly, elect bairn. 








Was like a bluidy tiger 


He's wal'd us out a true ane. 








I' th' Inn that day. 


And sound this day 






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-F r-ty 




AiaTa s ' 








THE CALF. 



Now Robinson harangue nae mair, 

But steek your gab for ever : 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think you clever; 
Or, nae reflection on your lear. 

Ye may commence a Shaver; 
Or to the Netherton repair, 

And turn a Carpet-weaver 

Aft-hand this day. 

Mutrie and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones : 
Auld Hornie did the Laigh Kirk watch. 

Just like a winkin baudrons : 
And ay he catch'd the tither wretch. 

To fry them in his caudrons; 
But now his Honour maun detach, 

\Vi' a' his brimstone squadrons, 

Fast, fast this day. 

See, see auld Orthodoxy's faes 

She's swingein thro' the city; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty ! 
There, Learning, with his Gveekish face. 

Grunts out some Latin ditty; 
And Common-sense is gaun, she says. 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 

Her plaint this day. 



But there's Morality himsel, 

Embracing all opinions; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell. 

Between his twa companions; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell. 

As ane were peelin onions ! 
Now there, they're packed aff to hell. 

And banish'd our dominions. 

Henceforth this day. 

O happy day ! rejoice, rejoice ! 

Come bouse about the porter ! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here nae mair tind quarter : 
M'Kinlay, Russel are the boys 

That heresy can torture; 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse. 

And cowe her measure shorter 

By th' head some day 

Come, bring the tither mutchkin in. 

And here's, for a conclusion, 
To every New Light mother's son. 

From this time forth, Confusion : 
If mair they deave us wi' their din. 

Or Patronage intrusion. 
We'll light a spunk, and, ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aff in fusion 

Like oil, some day. 



THE CALF. 



TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVENS, ON HIS TEXT, MALACHI, CH. IV. VER. 2. 

'' And yc shall go forth, and groii' n/> as calves of the stall.-' 



Right. Sir ! your text V\\ prove it true, 

Tho' Heretics may laugh; 
For instance, there's yoursel just now, 

God knows, an unco Calf. 

And should some Patron be so kind. 

As bless you wi' a kirk, 
I doubt na, Sir, but then we'll find. 

Ye 're still as great a Stirk. 

But, if the Lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, ev'ry heavenly Power, 

You e'er should be a Stot ! 



Tho', when some kind, connubial Dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A nolile head of horns. 

And, in your lug, most reverend James. 

To hear you rrar and rowte. 
Few men o' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank amang the Nowte. 

And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head — 

" Here lies a famous Bullock ! " 













A 


^m M ' . . ' K rriTx 




\ 1 sH s 


c \-^\ /•\ 


G 


V 


Mr 




1 


- ADDRESS TO THE DEIE 31 1-C 








ADDRESS TO 


THE DEIL. J L 






O Prince ! O Chief of 


iiany throned Poiv'rs, 






That led th' embattled 


Seraphim to war 

Milton. 






O THOf ! whatever title suit thee, 


Ae dreary, windy, winter night. 






Auld Hornie, Satan, Niclv, or Clootie, 


The stars shot down wi' sklentin light, 






Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 


Wi' you, mysel, I gat a fright. 






Clos'd under hatches, 


Ayont the lough; 






Spairges aljout the Ijrunstane cootie. 


Ye, like a rash-buss, stood in sight, 






To scaud poor wretches ! 


Wi' waving sugh. 






Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 


The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 






f\n' let poor damned Ijodies be; 


Each bristl'd hair stood like a stake, 






I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie. 


When wi' an eldritch, stoor quaick. 






Ev'n to a deil, 


quaick. 






To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like me, 


Aniang the springs. 






An' hear us squeel ! 


Awa ye squatter'd like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 






..;reat is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame; 








Far kend an' noted is thy name; 


Let warlocks grim, an' wither'd hags, 






\n' tho' yon lowin heugh's thy hame, 


Tell how wi' you on ragweed nags. 






Thou travels far; 


They skim the muirs, an' dizzy crags, 






\n' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 


Wi' wicked speed; 






Nor blate nor scaur. 


And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 
' Owre howkit dead. 






VVhyles, ranging like a roarin lion 








For prey, a' holes an' corners tryin; 


Thence, countra wives, wi' toil an' pain. 






vVhyles on the strong-wing'd Tempest 


May plunge an' plunge the kirn in vain; 






flyin, 


For, oh ! the yellow treasure's taen 






Tirlin the kirks ; 


By witching skill; 






VVhyles, in the human bosom pryin, 


An' dawtit, twal-pint Flawkie's gaen 






Unseen thou lurks. 


As yell's the Bill. 






['ve heard my reverend Grannie say, 


Thence, mystic knots mak great abuse. 






tn lanely glens ye like to stray; 


On young Guidmen, fond, keen, an' 






Or v.dier'e auld, ruin'd castles, gray. 


crouse ; 






Nod to the moon. 


When the best wark-lume i' the house^ 






Ve fright the nightly wand'rer's way. 


By cantrip wit, 






Wi' eldritch croon. 


Is instant made no worth a louse, 
Just at the bit. 






When twilight did my Graunie summon. 










To say her pray'rs, douce, honest woman ! 
■* Aft yont the dyke she's h^ard you 
bummin, 

Wi' eerie drone; 
Or. rustlin, thro' the boortrees comin, 
Wi' heavy groan. 


When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jinglin icy-boord, '^ 
Then, Water-kelpies haunt the foord. 

By your direction. 
An' nighted Trav'llers are allur'd 

To their destruction. 






[ 


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s 



DEATH AND DYING WORDS 



M 



An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkies 
Decoy the wight that late an' drunk is : 
The bleezin, curst, mischievous monkies 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is. 

Ne'er mair to rise. 

When Masons' mystic word an' grip, 
In storms an' tempests raise you up, 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ! 
The youngest Brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell. 

Lang syne, in Eden's bonie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd. 
An' all the soul of love they shar'd. 

The raptur'd hour. 
Sweet on the fragrant, flow'ry swaird. 

In shady bow'r : 

Then you, ye auld, snick-drawing dog I 

Ye came to Paradise incog. 

An' play'd on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be you fa !) 
An' gied the infant warld a shog, 

'Maist ruin'd a'. 

D'ye mind that day, when in a bizz, 
W^i' reckit duds, an' reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smoutie phiz, 
'Mang better folk. 



An' sklented on the maji of Uzz 
Your spitefu' joke ! 

An' how ye gat him i' your thrall, 
An' brak him out o' house an' hall', 
While scabs an' blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
An' lows'd his ill-tongu'd, wicked Scawl, 

Was warst ava? 

But a' your doings to rehearse, 
Your wily snares an' fetchin fierce. 
Sin' that day Michael did you pierce, 

Down to this time. 
Wad ding a' Lallan tongue, or Erse, 

In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin, 
A certain Bardie's rantin, drinkin. 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin, 

To your black pit; 
But, faith ! he'll turn a corner jinkin, 

An' cheat you yet. 

But, fare you vveel, auld Nickie-ben ! 
O wad ye tak a thought an' men' ! 
Ye aiblins might — I dinna ken — 

Still hae a stake — 
I'm wae to think upo' yon den, 

Ev'n for your sake ! 



THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR MAILIE, 
THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET YOWE. 



AN UNCO MOURNFU' TALE. 



As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither. 
Was ae day nibbling on the tether, 
Upon her cloot she coost a hitch, 
An' owre she warsl'd in the ditch; 
There, groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Hughoc he cam doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin een, an' lifted ban's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's; 
He saw her days were near hand ended, 
But, waes my heart ! he could na mend it ! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak. 
At length poor Mailie silence brak. 




" O thou, whase lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my woefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear. 
An' bear them to my Master dear. 

" Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o' hemp or hair ! 
But ca' them out to park or hill. 
An' let them wander at their will; 
So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 




OF POOR MA I LIE. 



33 



" Tell him, he was a Master kin', 
An' ay was guid to me an' mine; 
An' now my dying charge I gie him. 
My helpless lambs, I trust them wi' him. 

" O, bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives ! 
But gie them guid cow-milk their till. 
Till they be tit to fend themsel : 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' ripps o' corn. 

" An' may they never learn the gaets 
Of ither vile wanrestfu' pets ! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal. 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great Forbears, 
For monie a year come thro' the sheers; 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread. 
An' bairns greet for them when they're 
dead. 

" My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 
O, bid him breed him up wi" care ! 
An', if he live to be a beast, 
To pit some havins in his breast ! 



An' warn him, what I winna name. 
To stay content wi' yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless brutes. 

" An' niest my yowie, silly thingy 
Gude keep thee frae a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' ony blastit, moorland toop; 
But ay keep mind to moop an' mell, 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel ! 

"And now, my bairns, wi' my last 
breath 
I lea'e my blessin wi' you baith : 
An' when you think upo' your Mither, 
Mind to be kind to ane anither. 

" Now, honest Hughoc, dinna fail, 
To tell my Master a' my tale; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether, 
An', for thy pains,thou'se get my blether." 

This said, poor Mailie turn'd her 
head. 
An' clos'd her een amang the dead ! 



POOR MAILIE'S ELEGY. 



L.A.MENT in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose; 
Our Bardie's fate is at a close, 

Past a' remead; 
The last, sad cape-stane of his woes; 

Poor Mailie's dead ! 

It's no the loss o' warl's gear. 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or male our Bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
lie's lost a friend and neebor dear, 

In Mailie dead. 

Thro' a' the toun she trotted by him; 
A lang half-mile she could descry him; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed : 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him, 

Than Mailie dead. 

I wat she was a sheep o' sense. 
An' could behave hersel wi' mense; 
I'll say't, she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our Bardie, lanely, keeps the spence 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 



Or, if he wanders up the howe. 

Her living image in her yowe 

Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread; 
An' down the briny pearls rowe 

P^or Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 

Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips; 

For her forbears were brought in ships, 

Frae yont the Tweed : 
A bonier fleesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie's dead. 

Wae worth the man wha first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing — a rape ! 
It maks guid fellows grin an' gape, 

Wi' chokin dread; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 

For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye Bards on bonie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chanters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O' Robin's reed ! 
His heart will never get aboon ! 

His MaiUe's dead ! 



■-^EW 











-d — IM ' . 


~ Krk 






/•\ C. .1 


i'-'- 34 7^0 JAMES SMITH. 


J 




J ^ TO JAMES SMITH. 


L 






Frietidship ! mysterious cement of the soul ! 






Sweet'ner of Life, and 


solder of Society / 






/ owe thee jnuch.' 


Blair. 






Dear Smith, the sleeest, paukie thief, 


This while my notion's taen a sklent, 






That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 


To try my fate in guid, black prent ; 






Ve surely hae some warlock-breef 


But still the mair Fm that way bent. 






Owre human hearts; 


Something cries, " Hoolie ! 






For ne'er a bosom yet was prief 


I red you, honest man, tak tent ! 






Against your arts. 


Ye'll shaw your folly. 






For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 


" There's ither poets, much your betters. 






And ev'ry star that blinks aboon. 


Far seen in Greek, deep men o' letters. 






Ye've cost me twenty pair o' shoon 


Hae thought they had ensured their 






Just gaun to see yOu; 


debtors. 






And ev'ry ither pair that's done, 


A' future ages; 






Mair taen Fm wi' you. 


Now moths deform in shapeless tatters. 
Their unknown pages." 






That auld, capricious carlin. Nature, 








To mak amends for scrimpit stature, 


Then farewell hopes o' laurel boughs. 






She's turr.'d you aff, a human creature 


To garland my poetic brows ! 






On her first plan. 


Flenceforth Fll rove where busy ploughs 






And in her freaks, on ev'ry feature. 


Are whistling thrang. 






She's wrote, " The Man." 


An' leach the lanely heights an' howes 
My rustic sang. 






Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme. 








My barmie noddle's working prime. 


I'll wander on, wi' tentless heed 






My fancie yerkit up sublime 


How never-halting moments speed, 






Wi' hasty summon : 


Till fate shall snap the brittle thread; 






Hae ye a leisure-moment's time 


Then, all unknown, 






I'o hear what's comin? 


Fll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 
Forgot and gone ! 






Some rhyme, a neebor's name to lash; 








Some rhyme (vain thought !) forneedfu' 


But why c Death begin a tale ? 






cash ; 


just now we're living sound an' hale; 






Some rhyme to court the contra clash, 


Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 






An' raise a din; 


Heave Care o'er side ! 






For me, an aim I never fash; 


And large, before Enjoyment's gale, 






I rhyme for fun. 


Let's tak the tide. 






t The star that rules my luckless lot. 


This life, sae far's I understand, f 






'1 p Has fated me the russet coat, 


Is a' enchanted fairy-land, "1 


r* 






An' damm'd my fortune to the groat; 


Where pleasure is the magic wand, 








But, in requit. 


That, wielded right. 








Flas blest me with a random shot 


Maks hours like minutes, hand in hand, 








O' countra wit. 


Dance by fu' light. 


.. 






CK., 


} 


1 




-^^M r 




¥ 











^^^ 



TO JAMES SMITH. 



The magic wand then let us wield : 
For, ance that five-an'-foity's speel'd, 
See, crazy, weary, joyless Eild, 

Wi' wrinkl'd face. 
Comes hoistin, hirplin owre the field, 

Wi' creepin pace. 

When ance life's day draws near the 

gloamin, 
Then fareweel vacant careless roamin; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foamin. 

An' social noise; 
An' fareweel dear deluding woman, 

The joy of joys ! 

O life ! how pleasant in thy morning, 
Young Fancy's rays the hills adorning ! 
Cold-pausing Caution's lesson scorning. 

We frisk away. 
Like schoolboys, at th' expected warning, 

To joy and play. 

"We wander there, we wander here. 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 
Unmindful that the thorn is near, 

Among the leaves : 
And tho' the puny wound appear. 

Short while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flow'ry spot. 
For which they never toil'd nor swat; 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

W'ith high disdain. 

With steady aim, some Fortune chase; 
Keen hope does ev'ry sinew brace; 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey; 
Then canie, in some cozie place. 

They close the day. 

And others, like your humble servan', 
Poor wights! nae rules nor roadsbbservin, 
To right or left, eternal swervin, 

They zig-zag on; 
Till curst with age, obscure an' starvm, 

They aften groan. 



Alas ! what bitter toil an' straining — 
But truce wi' peevish, poor complaining 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning? 

E'en let her gang I 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 

And kneel, " Ye Fow'rs ! " and warm 

implore, 
" Tho' I should wander Terra o'er^ 

\\\ all her climes. 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Ay rowth o' rhymes. 

" Gie dreeping roasts to countra Lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards ; 
Gie fine braw claes to fine Life-guards, 

And Maids of Honour; 
And yill an' whisky gie to Cairds, 

Until they sconner. 

" A Title, Dempster merits it; 

A Garter gie to Willie Pitt; 

Gie Wealth to same be-ledger'd Cit, 

\\\ cent per cent; 
But gie me real, sterling Wit, 

And Fm content. 

" While Ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er my scanty meal, 
Be't water-brose, or muslin kail, 

Wi' cheerfu' face. 
As lang's the Muses dinna fail 

To say the grace." 

An anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jouk beneath Misfortune's blows 

As weel's I may; 
Sworn foe to Sorrow, Care, and Prose, 

I rhyme away. 

O ye douce folk, that live by rule. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm, and cool, 
Compar'd wi' you — O fool! fool! fool' 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool. 

Your lives, a dyke ! 



^ 




A DREAM. 



Nae hair-brain'd sentimental traces, 
In your unletter'd, nameless faces ! 
In arioso trills and graces 

Ye never stray, 
But gravissimo, solemn basses 

Ye hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise; 

Nae ferly the' ye do despise 

The hairum-scairum, lam-stam boys, 



The rattlin squad : 
I see you upward cast your eyes — 
Ye ken the road. — 

Whilst I — but I shall baud me there- 
Wi' you I'll scarce gang ony w here — 
Then, Jamie, I shall say nae mair, 

But quat my sang, 
Content with You to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 




A DREAM. 

1 houghts, words, and deeds, the Statute Slaines with reason ; 
But sttrely Dreams were ne'er indicted Treason. 

[On reading, in tbe public papers, the Laureate's Ode, with the other parade of June 4, 1786, 
the author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he imagined himself transported to the Birth-day 
Levee; and, in his dreaming fancy, made the following Address.] 



GuiD-MoRNiN to your Majesty ! 

May heaven augment your blisses. 
On ev'ry new birth-day ye see; 

A humble Bardie wishes ! 
My Baidship here, at your Levee, 

On sic a day as this is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amang thae Birth-day dresses 
Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang. 

By mony a lord an' lady; 
" God save the King ! " 's a cuckoo sang 

That's unco easy said ay ; 
The Poets, too, a venal gang, 

\Vi' rhymes weel-turn'd and ready, 
Wad gar you trow ye ne'er do wrang, 

But ay unerring steady, 
, On sic a day. 

For me ! before a Monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter; 
For neither pension, post, nor place. 

Am I your humble debtor : 
So, nae reflection on Your Grace, 

Your Kingship to bespatter; 
There's monie waur been o' the Race, 

And aiblins ane been better 

Than You this day. 



'Tis very true, my sovereign King, 

My skill may weel be doubted : 
But Facts are cheels that winna ding, 

An' downa be disputed : 
Your Royal nest, beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouted, 
And now the third part of the string, 

An' less, will gang about it 

Than did ae day. 

Far be't frae me that I aspire • 

To blame your legislation. 
Or say, ye wisdom want, or fire. 

To rule this mighty nation; 
But, faith ! I muckle doubt, my Sire, 

Ye've trusted Ministration 
To chaps, wha, in a barn or byre. 

Wad better fill'd their station 

Than courts yon day. 

And now ye've gien auld Britain peace, 

Her broken shins to plaister; 
Your sair taxation does her fleece 

Till she has scarce a tester; 
For me, thank God, my life's a lease 

Nae bargain wearing faster. 
Or, faith ! I fear that with the geese, 

I shortly boost to pasture 

I' the craft some day. 





A DREAM. 



I'm no mistrusting Willie Pitt, 

When taxes he enlarges, 
(An' Will's a true guid fallow's get, 

A name not envy spairges,) 
That he intends to pay your debt. 

An' lessen a' your charges; 
But, God's sake ! let nae saving-fit 

Abridge your bonie barges 

An' boats this day. 

iidieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high jjrotection; 
A.n' may Ye rax Corruption's neck. 

And gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm here, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection. 
To pay your Queen, with due respect. 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great Birth-day. 

Hail, Majesty most Excellent ! 

While nobles strive to please Ye, 
W^ill Ye accept a compliment 

A simple Poet gies Ye ? 
Thae bonny bairntime Ileav'n has lent. 

Still higher may they heeze Ye 
In bliss, till Fate some day is sent, 

For ever to release Ye 

Frae care that day. 

For yoU; young Potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
Down Pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails 

I'm tauld ye're driving rarely; 
But some day ye may gnaw your nails. 

An' curse your folly sairly, ' 
That ere ye brak Diana's pales. 

Or ratti'd dice wi' Charlie, 
By night or day. 

Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver ; 
Sae, ye may doucely fill a Throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 



There, HIt" ^ A^ipcourt wha shone, 
Few better were or braver; 

And yet, wi' funny, quee- Sir John, 
He was an unco shaver 

For monie ? day. 

For you, right rev'rend Osnab^r^, 

Name sets the lawn-sleeve sweeter, 
Altho' a ribban at your lug 

Wid been a dress completer: 
As ye disown yon paughty dog 

That bears the Keys of Peter, 
Then, swith ! an' get a wife to hug. 

Or, troth ! ye'll stain the Mitre 
Some luckless day. 

Young, royal Tarry Breeks, I learn, 

Ye've lately come athwart her; 
A glorious galley, stem and stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter; 
But first hang out, that she'll discern 

Your hymeneal charter. 
Then heave aboard your grapple airn, 

An', large upon her quarter. 

Come full that day. 

Ye, lastly, bonie blossoms a', 

Ye royal Lasses dainty, 
Heav'n mak you guid as weel as braw, 

An' gie you lads a-plenty : 
But sneer na British boys awa'. 

For Kings are unco scant ay; 
An' German Gentles are but sma', 

They're better just than want ay 
On onie day. 

God bless you a' ! consider now 

Ye're unco muckle dautet; 
But, e'er the course o' life be through, 

It may be bitter sautet : 
An' I hae seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 

Fu' clean that day. 





w ,. 



T//E VISION. 



THE VISION. 




DUAN FIRST. 



The sun had dos'd the winter day, 
The Curlers quat their roarin play, 
An' hunger'd Maukin taen her way 

To kail-yards green. 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Vvliare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin-tree 
The lee-lang day had tired me; 
And whan the day had clos'd his e'e. 

Far i' the west, 
Ben i' the Spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
That fill'd, wi' hoast-provoking smeek. 

The auld, clay biggin; 
An' heard the restless rattons squeak 

About the riggin. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 

I backward mus'd on wasted time, 

How I had spent my youthfu' prime. 

An' done nae-lhing, 
Ijut stringin blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to guid advice but harkit, 
I might, by this, hae led a market. 
Or strutted in a bank, and clarkit 

My cash-account : 
While here, half-mad, half-fed, half- 
sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring, blockhead ! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof. 

Or some rash aith. 
That I, henceforth, would l:)e rhyme-proof 

Till my last breath — 



When click ! the string the snick did 

draw ; 
And jee ! the door gaed to the wa'; 
And by my ingle-lowe I saw. 

Now bleezin bright, 
A tight, outlandish Hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 

Ye need na doubt, I held my whisht; 
The infant aith, half-foi-m'd, was crusht ; 
I glowr'd as eerie's I'd been dusht 

In some wild glen; 
W'hen sweet, like modest worth, she 
blusht. 

And stepped ben. 

( Ireen, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs 
Were twisted, grace fu', round her brows, 
I took her for some Scottish Muse, 

By that same token; 
And come to stop these reckless vows. 

Would soon been broken. 

A " hair-l^rain'd, sentimental trace," 
Was strongly marked in her face; 
A wildly-witty, rustic grace 

Shone full upon her; 
Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with Honour. 

Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen. 
Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 
And such a leg ! my bonie Jean 

Could only peer it; 
Sae straugh*-, sae taper, tight, and clean, 

Nane else came near it. 

Her mantle large, of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew; 
Deep lights and shades, bold-mingling, 
threw 

A lustre grand; 
And seem'd, to my astonish'd view 

A well-known Land. 



s 



n 



THE VISION. 



39 



Mere, rivers in the sea were lost; 
There, mountains to the skies were lost : 
Mere, tumbling billows mark'd the coast 

With surging foam; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 

The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd 

floods ; 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds, 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods. 

On to the shore; 
And many a lesser torrent scuds. 
With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 

An ancient Borough rear'd her head; 

Still, as in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a Race, 
To ev'ry nobler virtue bred. 

And polish'd grace. 

By stately tow'r or palace fair. 

Or ruins pendent in the air. 

Bold stems of Heroes, here and there, 

I could discern; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to 
dare. 

With feature stern. 

ISIy heart did glowing transport feel, 

To see a Race heroic wheel. 

And brandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their Suthron foes. 



His Country's Saviour, mark him 

well! 
Bold Richardton's heroic swell; 
The Chief on Sark who glorious fell, 

In high command; 
And He whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 

There, where a sceptr'd Pictish shade 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I mark'd a martial Race, pourtray'd 

In colours strong; 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undismay'd 

They strode along. 

Thro' many a wild, romantic grove, 
Near many a hermit-fancy'd cove, 
(Fit haunts for Friendship or for Love 

In musing mood,) 
An aged Judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 

With deep-struck reverential awe 
The learned Sire and Son I saw, 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore : 
This, all its source and end to draw; 

That, to adore. 

Brydon's brave Ward I well could spy. 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye; 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by. 

To hand him on. 
Where many a Patriot name on high, 

And Hero shone. 



DUAN SFXOND. 



With musing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
T vie^^•'d the heavenly-seeming Fair; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear. 

Of kindred sweet, 
'A'hen with an elder Sister's air 

She did me greet. 

' All hail ! my own inspired Bard ! 
In me thy native Muse regard ! 
Nor longer mourn thy fate is hard, 

Thus poorly low ! 
I come to give thee such reward 

As we bestow. 



" Know, the great Genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band. 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As Arts or Arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 

" They Scotia's Race among them share: 
Some fire the Soldier on to dare; 
Some rouse the Patriot up to bare 

Corruption's heart : 
Some teach the Bard, a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 



^ 





^t^ 



THE VISION. 



^ 

S 



" 'Mong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; 
Or, 'mid the venal Senate's roar. 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest Patriot lore. 

And grace the hand. 

"And when the Bard, or hoary Sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild. Poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eve. 



" Hence, Fullarton , the brave and young ; 
Hence,Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue ; 
Hence, sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His ' Minstrel lays '; 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The Sceptic's bays. 

" To lower orders are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic Bard, the lab'ring Hind, 

The Artisan; 
All choose, as various they're inchn'd. 

The various man. 

" When yellow waves the heavy grain, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly 

rein; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain 

With tillage-skill; 
And some instruct the Shepherd-train, 

Blythe o'er the hill. 

"Some hint the Lover's harmless wile; 
Some grace the Maiden's artless smile; 
Some soothe the Lab'rer's weary toil, 

For humble gains. 
And make his cottage-scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

" Some, bounded to a district-space. 
Explore at large Man's infant race, 
To mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic Bard; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 

A guide and guard. 



"Of these am I — Coila my name; 
And this district as mine I claim, 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of 
fame, 

Held ruling pow'r : 
I mark'd thy embryo-tuneful flame. 

Thy natal hour. 

" With future hope, I oft would gaze, 

Fond, on thy little early ways. 

Thy rudely-caroU'd, chiming phrase. 

In uncouth rhymes, 
Fir'd at the simple, artless lays 

Of other times. 

" I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar; 
Or when the North his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim Nature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young eye. 

" Or when the deep green-mantl'd Earth 
Warm-cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the gen'ral mirth 

With boundless love. 

" When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Call'd forth the Reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their ev'ning joys. 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise 

In pensive walk. 

" When youthful Love, warm-blushing 

strong. 
Keen-shivering shot thy nerves along, 
Tiiose accents, grateful to thy tongue, 

Th' adored Name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song. 
To soothe thy flame. 

" I saw thy pulse's maddening play, 
Wild send thee Pleasure's devious way. 
Misled by Fancy's meteor ray, 

By Passion driven; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from Heaven. 





^Qa 



ADDRESS TO THE UA'CO GUID. 



" I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains. 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends; 
And some, the pride of Coila's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

'■ Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
'i'o paint with Thomson's landscape- 
glow; 
' )i' wake the bosom-melting throe, 

With Shenstone's art; 
( )r pour, with Gray, the moving flow 
Warm on the heart. 

" Yet, all beneath th' unrivall'd rose. 

The lowly daisy sweetly blows; 

I'ho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade. 
Vet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 

Adown the glade. 



" Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine. 

Nor King's regard. 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 

A rustic Bard. 



" To give my counsels all in one. 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan ; 
Preserve the dignity of Man, 

With Soul erect; 
And trust, the Universal Plan 

Will all protect. 



" And wear thou this " — she solemn said, 
And bound the Holly round my head : 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, she fled 

In light away. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID, OR THE RIGIDLY 
RIGHTEOUS. 



My son, these maxivis make a rule. 

And himp them aye thegithcr ; 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither: 
The cleanest corn that e'er ivas dight. 

May hae some pyles o' caff in ; 
So ne'er afelloiu-creatiire slight 

for random fits o' daffin. 

Solomon. — Eccles. vii. i6. 



( ) VE wha are sae guid yoursel, 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell 

Your Neebour's fauts and folly ! 
Whase life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supply'd wi' store o' water. 
The heapet happer's ebbing still, , 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

Hear me, ye venerable Core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent j^ass douce Wisdom's door. 

For glaikit Folly's portals; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes. 

Would here propone defences. 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes. 

Their failings and mischances. 



Ye see your state wi' their's compar'd, 

And shudder at the niffer. 
But cast a moment's fair regard. 

What maks the mighty differ; 
Discount what scant occasion gave 

That purity ye pride in. 
And (what's aft mair than a' the lave) 

Your better art o' hiding. 

Think, when your castigated pulse 

Gies now and then a wallop. 
What raging must his veins convulse 

That still eternal gallop : 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It makes an unco leeway. 



■^- 




«^ 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 



See Social life and Glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmugrify'd, they're grown 

Deliauchery and Drinking: 
O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal consequences; 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses ! 

Ye high, exalted, virtuous Dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces, 
Before you gie poor Frailty names. 

Suppose a change o' cases; 
A dear lov'd lad, convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye're aiblins nae temptation. 



Then gently scan your brother Man, 

Still gentler sister Woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin vvrang, 

To step aside is human : 
One point must still be greatly dark, 

The moving Why they do it; 
And just as lamely can ye mark. 

How far perhaps they rue it. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us. 
He knows each chord its various tone. 

Each spring its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute. 

We never can adjust it; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 



■ the noblest work of God. — Pope. 



Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil? 
Or great M'Kinlay thrawn his heel? 
Or Robinson again grown weel. 

To preach an' read? 
" Na, waur than a' ! " cries ilka chiel, 

" Tarn Samson's dead !" 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' grane. 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane. 
An' deed her bairns, man,wife, an' wean. 

In mourning weed; 
To Death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

The Brethren o' the mystic level 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel, 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead; 
Death's gien the Lodge an unco devel, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When Winter muffles up his cloak. 
And binds the mire like a rock; 
When to the loughs the Curlers flock 

Wi' gleesome speed, 
Wha will they station at the cock, 

Tam Samson's dead ? 



He was the king o' a' the Core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore. 
Or up the rink like Jehu roar 

In time o' need; 
But now he lags on Death's hog-score, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Now safe the stately Sawmont sail. 
And Trouts bedropp'd vvi' crimson hail, 
And Eels weel kend for souple tail, 

And Geds for greed. 
Since dark in Death's Jish-creel we wail 

Tam Samson dead ! 

Rejoice, ye birring Paitricks a'; 

Ye cootie Moorcocks, crousely craw; 

Ye Maukins, cock your.fud fu' braw, 

Withouten dread; 
Your mortal Fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

That woefu' morn be ever mourn'd 
Saw him in shootin grailh adorn'd. 
While pointers round impatient burn'd, 

Frae couples freed ; 
But, Och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 





TAM SAMSON'S ELEGY. 



In vain auld age his body batters; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters; 
In vain the burns came down like waters, 

An acre braid ! 
Now e\'ry auld wife, greetin, clatters, 

" Tarn Samson's dead ! " 

Owre niony a weary hag he limpit. 
An' ay the tither shot he thumpit, 
Till coward Death behind him jumpit 

Wi' deadly feide; 
Now he proclaims, wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

When at his heart he felt the dagger. 
He reel'd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' weel-aim'd heed; 
" Lord, five ! " he cry'd, an' owre did 
stagger; 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 

Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brither; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a father; 
Yon auld gray stane, amang the heather, 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming 
blether, 

" Tam Samson's dead ! " 

There, low he lies, in lasting rest; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 



Some spitefu' muirfowl bigs her nest, 
To hatch and breed; 

Alas ! nae mair he'll them molest ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

When August winds the heather wave. 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave. 
Three vollies let his mem'ry crave 

O' pouther an' lead. 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

Heav'n rest hi.', saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me : 
He had twa faults, or maybe three, 

Yet what remead? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 
Ve canting zealots, ^pare him ! 

If honest worth in heaven rise, 
Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, an' canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie, 
Te'l ev'ry social, honest billie 

To cease his grievin, 
Fur yetjunskaith'd by Death's gleggullie, 

Tam Samson's livin ! 





^ 



HALLOWEEN. 



HALLOW EEN.i 



[The following Poem will by many readers be well enough understood : but for the sake of those 
who are unacquainted with the manners and traditions of the country where the scene is cast, notes 
are added to give som'; account of the principal charms and spells of that night, so big with 
prophecy to the peasantry in the west of Scotland. The passion of prying into futurity makes a 
striking part of the history of human nature, in its rude state, in all ages and nations; and it may 
be some entertainment to a philosophic mind if any such should honour the Author with a perusal, 
to see the remains of it, among the more unenlightened in our own. R. B.] 



Ves ! let the rich deride, the protid disdain. 
The simple pleasures of the Imvly *rain ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art. 

Goldsmith. 



Upon that night, when Fairies light 

On Cassilis Downans - dance, 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance; 
Or for Colean the rout is ta'en. 

Beneath the moon's pale beams; 
There, up the Cove,'' to stray an' rove 

Amang the rocks and streams 

To sport that night; 

Amang the boi^ie, winding banks, 

Wherc'Doon rins, wimplin, clear, 
Where Bruce"* ance rurd the martial 
ranks. 

An' shook his Carrick spear. 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene. 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks. 

An' baud their TIalloweeii 

Fu' blythe that night. 



The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when they're fine; 
Their faces blythe, fu' sweetly kythe. 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an' kin : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten. 
Some unco blate, an' some \\\ gabs. 

Gar lasse's hearts gang startin 

Whyles fas', at night. 



Then, first an' foremost, thro' the kail. 

Their stocks ^ maun a' be sought ance -. 
They steek their een, an' grape, an' wale, 

For muckle anes, an' straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift, 

An' wander'd thro' the Bow-kail, 
An' pou't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt was like a sow-tail, 

Sae bow't that night. 



1 Is thought to be a night when witches, devils, and other mischief-making beings are all abroad 
on their baneful midnight errands; particularly those aerial jicople, the fairies, are ^aid on that 
night to hold a grand anniversary. R. B. 

- Certain little, romantic, rocky green hills, in the neighbourhood of the ancient .seat of the 
Earls of Cassilis. R. B. 

2 A noted cavern near Colean-house, called the Cove of Colean; which, as well as Cassilis 
Downans, is famed in country stor>- for being a favorite haunt of fairies. R. B. 

■* The famous family of that name, the ancestors of Robert, the great deliverer of his country, 
were Earls of Carrick. R. B. 

•'■' The first ceremony of Halloween is pulling each ^ stock, or plant of kail. They nuist go nut 
hand in hand, with eyes shut, and pull the first they meet with. Its being big or little, straight or 
crooked, is prophetic of the size and shape of the grand object of all their spells — the husband or 
wife. If any ^ird, or .-Tvih. "UrV to the root, that is tocher, or fortune; and the taste of the 
cnstock, that is the hi; ni ' ' ! i. is indicative of the natural temper and disposition. Lastly, 
the stems, or to give tin i i! i ..i m ny appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere above the 
head of the door; and il" i Im nui n.mies of the people whom chance brings into the house are, 
according to the priority o\ piac m- the runts, the names in question. R. " 






Upon that night, when fairies light 
On Cassilis Downaus dauce." 











A 


d ^H '■ .^ Km^ 


) 






t 


- HALLOWEEN. 45 \. 


Then, straught or crooked, yird or nane. 


Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail run'.. 






They roar an' cry a' throu'ther; 


Was brunt wi' primsie Mallie, 








The vera wee things, toddlin, rin. 


An' Mary, nae doubt, took the drunt, 






■^ 


Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; 


To be compar'd to Willie : 






An' gif the custocks sweet or sour, 


Mall's nit lap out, wi' pridefu' fling, 






Wi' joctelegs they taste them; 


An' her ain (it it brunt it; 






Syne coziely, aboon the door, 


While Willie lap, an' swoor by jing. 






Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them 


'Twas just the way he wanted 






To he that night. 


To be that night. 






The lasses stavv frae 'mang them a' 


Nell had the fause-house in her min', 






To pou their stalks o' corn; i 


She pits hersel an' Rob in; 






But Rab slips out, an' jinks about, 


In loving bleeze they sweetly join, 






Behint the muckle thorn : 


Till white in ase they're sobbin : 






He grippet Nelly hard an' fast; 


Nell's heart was dancin at the view; 






Loud skirl'd a' the lasses; 


She whisper'd Rob to leuk for't : 






But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 


Rob, stownlins, prie'd her bonnie mou. 






When kiutlin i' the fause-house^ 


Fu' cozie in the neuk for't. 






Wi' him that night. 


Unseen that night. 






The auld.guidwife's weel-hoordit nits'^ 


But Merran sat behint their backs. 






Are round an' round divided, 


Her thoughts on Andrew Bell; 






An' monie lads' and lasses' fates 


She lea'es them gashin at their cracks, 






Are there that night decided : 


An' slips out by hersel : 






Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 


She thro' the yard the nearest taks. 






An' burn thegither trimly; 


An' to the kiln she goes then, 






Some start awa, wi' saucy pride. 


An' darklins grapit for the banks, 






An' jump out-owre the chimlie 


And in the blue-clue * throws then. 






h'u' high that night. 


Right fear't that night. 






jean slips in twa, wi' tentie e'e; 


An' aye she win't, an' ay she swat. 






Wha 'twas, she wadna tell ; 


I wat she made nae jaukin; 






But this is Jock, and this is me. 


Till something held within the pat. 






She says in to hersel : 


Guid Lord ! but she was quaukin ! 






He bleez'd owre her, an' she owre him. 


But whether 'twas the Deil himsel. 






As they wad never mair part; 


Or whether 'twas a bauk-en'. 






nil fuff! he started up the lum, 


Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 






An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 


She did na wait on talkin 






To see't that night. 


To spier that night. 






1 They go to the barn-yard and pull each, at three different times, a stalk of oats. If the third 






stalk wants the tap-pickle, that is, the grain at the top of the stalk, the party in question will come 






to the marriage-bed anything but a maid. R. B. 






2 When the corn is in a doubtful state, it being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by means 






of old timber, &c., makes a large apartment in his stack, with an opening in the side which is fairest 






e-xposed to the wind: this he calls a Fause-hoitse. R. B. 






^ Burning the nuts is a famous charm. They name the lad and the lass to each particular nut. 








as they lay them in the fire; and accordingly as they burn quietly together, or start from beside 

one another, the course and issue of the courtship will be. R. B. ^ 






"" 








■> Whoever would, with success, try this spell, must strictly observe these directions: Steal out, 
all alone, to the kiln, and durkling, throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn; wind it in a new clue 














off the old one; and towards the latter end something will hold the thread; demand Wha hattds ? 








i.e., who holds? an answer will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming the Christian and 








surname of your future spouse. R. '.). 






"" 


: J 






[ 


Tx xF 


i 


A^ 


' V" 1 '' 


~ i:ef 


Qt=^ . 










-^ 



HALL WEEN. 



VVee Jenny to her Graunie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, CJraunie? 
" I'll eat the apple ' at the glass, 

" I gat fvae uncle Johnie : " 
She fufft her pipe wi' sic a lunt, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin. 
She notic't na, an aizle brunt 

Mer braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 

" Ve little SkeliJic-limnier's face ! 

" I daur you try sic sportin, 
" As seek the foul Thief ony place, 

" For- him to spae your fortune? 
" Nae doubt but ye may get a sight ! 

"Great cause ye hae to fear it; 
" For monie a ane has got a fright, 

" An' liv'd an' di'd deleeret, 

" On sic a night. 

" Ae Ilairst afore the Sherra-moor, 

" I mind't as weal's yestreen, 
" I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

" I was na past fyfteen : 
" The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

"An' stuff was unco' green; 
" An' ay a rantin kirn we gat, 

"An' just on Halloween 

" It fell that night. 

" Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Graen, 

"A clever, sturdy fallow; 
" I lis sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

"That liv'd in Achmacalla; 
" He gat hemp-seed,-^ I mind it weel, 

" An' he made unco light o't; 
" But monie a day was by himsel, 

" He was sae sairly frighted 

" That vera night." 

Then up gat fechtin Jamie Fleck, 
An' he swoor by his conscience, 

That he could saw hemp-seed a peck ; 
For it was a' but nonsense : 



The auld guidman raught down the pock, 
An' out a handfu' gied him; 

Syne bad him slip frae 'mang the folk. 
Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
An' try't that night. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 

Tho' he was something sturtin; 
The graip he for a harrow taks. 

An' haurls at his curpin : 
An' ev'ry now an' then, he says, 

" Flemp-seed, I saw thee, 
" An' her that is to be my lass, 

" Come after me an' draw thee 

" As fast this night." 

He whistl'd up Lord Lenox' march, 

To keep his courage cheary ; 
Altho' his hair began to arch. 

He was sae fley'd an' eerie : 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then a grane an' gruntle.; 
He by his shouther gae a keek. 

An' tumbl'd wi' a wintle 

Out-owre that night. 

He roar'd a horrid murder-shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ! 
An' young an' auld come rinnin out. 

An' hear the sad narration : 
He swoor 'twas hilchin Jean M'Craw, 

Or crouchie Mcrran lluniphie, 
Till stop ! she trotted thro' them a'; 

An' wha w as it but Grimiphie 
Asteer that night ! 

Meg fain ^\■ad to the barn gaen 

To winn three Avechts o' naething; ^ 
I5ut for to meet the Deil her lane. 

She pat but little faith in : 
She gies the Herd a pickle nits. 

And twa red-cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tam Kipples 
That vera night. 



1 Take a candle and go alone to a looking-glass ; eat an apple before it, and some traditions say 
you should comb your hair all the time; the face of your conjugal companion to be will be seen in 
the glass, as if peeping over your shoulder. R. B. .... ,. 

2 Steal out unpcrceived and sow a handful of hemp-seed, harrowing it with anything you can 
conveniently draw after you. Repeat now and then, " Hemp-seed, I saw thee, hemp-seed, I saw 
thee; and him (or her) that is to be my true-love, come after me and pou thee." Look over your 
left shoulder, and you will see the appearance of the person invoked in the attitude of pulling 
hemp. Some traditions say, " come after me and shaw thee," that is, show thyself; in vk-hich case 
it simply appears. Others omit the harrowing, and say, " come after me and harrow thee " R. B. 

s This charm must likewise be performed unperccived and alone. You go to the barn and 




HALLOWEEN. 



She turns the key, wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca', 

Syne bauldly in she enters; 
A ratton rattl'd up the wa', 

An' she cry'd, Lord preserve her ! 
An' ran thro' midden-hole an' a', 

An' pray'd wi' zeal an' fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 

They hoy't out Will, wi' sair advice; 

They hecht him some fine bravv ane; 
It chanced the stack he faddom't thrice ' 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin : 
He taks a swirlie, auld moss-oak, 

P^or some black, grousome Carlin ; 
An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke. 

Till skin in blypes cam haurlin 

Aff's nieves that night. 

A wanton widow Leezie was, 

As cantie as a kittlin : 
But Och ! that night, amang the shaws 

She gat a fearfu' settlin 1 
She thro' the whins, an' by the cairn. 

An' owre the hill gaed scrievin, 
Whare three lairds' lands met at a burn,'-' 

To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night. 

Whyles owre a linn the burnie plays, 
As thro' the glen it wimpl't; 

Whyles round a rocky scar it strays; 
W^hyles in a wiel it dimpl't; 



Whyles glitter'd to the nightly rays, 
Wi' bickering, dancing dazzle; 

Whyles cookit underneath the braes. 
Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

Amang the brachens on the brae. 

Between her an' the moon. 
The Deil, or else an outler Quey, 

Gat up an' gae a croon : 
Poor Leezie's heart maist lap the hoo1 

Near lav'rock height she junipit. 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit, 

Wi' a plunge that night 

In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The luggies three ^ are ranged; 
And ev'ry time great care is taen, 

To see them duly changed : 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin' Mar's-year did desire, 
Because he gat the toom dish thrice. 

He heav'd them on the fire 

In wrath that night. 

Wi' merry sangs, and friendly cracks, 

I wat they did na weary; 
And unco tales, an' funnie jokes. 

Their sports were cheap and cheary; 
Till butter'd So'ns,'* wi' fragrant lunt, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin ; 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

They parted aff careerin 

Fu' blvthe that nicht. 




open both doors, taking them off the hinges, if possible; for there is danger that the being about 
to appear may shut the doors, and do you some mischief. Then take that instrument used in 
winnowing the corn, which in our country' dialect we call a ivcclit, and go through all the 
attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. Repeat it three times; and the third time an 
apparition will pass through the barn, in at the windy door and out at the other, having both the 
figure in question and the appearance or retinue marking the employment or station in life. R. B. 

1 Take an opportunity of going, unnoticed, to a Bear-stack, and fathom it three times round. 
The last fathom of the last time you will catch in your arms the appearance of your future conjugal 
yoke-fellow. R. B. 

2 You go out, one or more (for this is a social spell), to a south running spring or rivulet, where 
" three lairds' lands meet," and dip your left shirt sleeve. Go to bed in sight of a fire, and hang 
your wet sleeve before it to dry. Lie awake, and somewhere near midnight an apparition, having 
the e.\act figure of the grand object in question, will come and turn the sleeve, as if to dry the 
other side o^it. R. B. 

s Take three dishes; put clean water in one, foul water in the other, and leave the third empty, 
blindfold a person, and lead him to the hearth where the dishes are ranged; he (or she) dips the 
left hand: if by chance in the clean water, the future husband or wife will come to the bar of 
matrimony a maid; if the foul, a widow; if in the empty dish, it foretells with equal certainty 
no marriage at all. It is repeated three times, and every time the arrangement of the dishes is 
altered. R. B. 

* Sowens, with butter instead of milk to them, is always the Halloween Supper. R. "P- 



^ 





THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 

A CANTATA. 



RECITATIVO. 



When lyart leaves bestrow the yird, 
Or, wavering like the bauckie bird, 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast : 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte. 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 

In hoary cranreuch drest; 
Ae night, at e'en, a merry core 

O' randie, gangrel bodies. 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore. 
To drink their orra daddies : 
Wi' quaffing and laughing. 

They ranted and they sang; 
Wi' jumping and thumping. 
The vena girdle rang. 



First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brac'd wi' mealy bags. 

And knapsack a' in order; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae and blankets warm, 

She blinket on her sodger; 
An' aye he gies the towsie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss. 
While she held up her greedy gab. 
Just like an aumous dish; 

Ilk smack still, did crack still. 

Just like a cadger's M'hip, 
Then staggering, and swaggering, 
He roar'd this ditty up — 



Tune — " Soldier's Joy." 

I AM a son of Mars, who have been in many wars. 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a trench, 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

My 'prentiship 1 pass'd where my leader breath'd his last, 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of Abram; 
I serv'd out my trade when the gallant game was play'd. 
And the Morro low was laid at the sound of the drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

I lastly was with Curtis, among the floating batt'ries. 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb : 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head me, 
I'd clatter on my stumps at the sound of a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

And now, tho' I must beg, with a wooden arm and leg. 
And many a tatter'd rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle, and my callet. 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 

Lai de daudle, &c. 

What tho' with hoary locks, I must stand the winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks, oftentimes for a home; 
When the t'other bag I sell, and the t'other bottle tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell at the sound of the drum. 





E 



THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 



49 



iECITATIVO. 



He ended; and the kebars sheuk 

Aboon the chorus roar; 
While frighted rattons Imckward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore : 



A fairy fiddler frae the neuk, 
He skirl'd out encore ! 

But up arose the martial chuck, 
And laid the loud uproar. 



Tl-ne — " Soldier Laddie r 

I ONCE was a maid, the' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men; 
Some one of a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 

The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch. 
So the sword I forsook for the sake of the church; 
He ventur'd the soul, I risked the body, 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. 
The regiment at large for a husband I got; 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife I was ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

But the peace it reduc'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met my old boy at a Cunningham fair; 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy. 
My heart it rejoic'd at my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

And now I have Hv'd — I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song; 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass steady, 

Here's to thee, my hero, my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 



RECITATIVO. 



Poor Merry Andrew, in the neuk 
Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 

They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, 
Between themselves they were sae bizzy : 



At length, wi' drink and courting dizzy. 
He stoitered up an' made a face; 

Then turn'd, an' laid a smack on Grizzy, 
Syne tun'd his pipes wi' grave grimace 



Jt 





THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 





AIR. 
'XwE.—"Ajdd Syr Symon." 

Sir Wisdom's a fool when he's fou, 
Sir Knave is a fool in a session; 

He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 
But 1 am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a beuk, 
And I held awa to the school; 

I fear I my talent misteuk, 

But what will ye hae of a fool? 

For drink I would venture my neck; 

A hizzie's the half o' my craft; 
But what could ye other expect, 

Of ane that's avowedly daft? 

I ance was ty'd up like a stirk, 
For civilly swearing and quaffing; 

I ance was abus'd i' the kirk, 
For towzling a lass i' my daffin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer; 

There's ev'n, I'm tauld, i' the court, 
A tumbler ca'd the Premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Maks faces to tickle the mob; 

He rails at our mountebank squad — 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion Pll tell, 
For faith Fm confoundedly dry; 

The chiel that's a fool for himsel', 
Gude Lord, is far dafter than L 

RECITATIVO. 

Then niest outspak a raucle carlin, 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling, 
For monie a pursie she had hooked, 
^,nd had in monie a well been dooked; 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie. 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sabs, she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman : 

AIR. 
Tune — "O, an' ye were dead, Guidinan." 
A Highland lad my love was born, 
The Lawlan' laws he held in scorn : 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 



Sing, hey, my braw John Highland- 
man ! 
Sing, ho, my braw John Highlai\dman ! 
There's no a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 

With his philibeg an' tartan plaid. 
And gude claymore down by his side. 
The ladies' hearts he did trepan. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

We ranged a' from Tweed to Spey, 
And liv'd like lords and ladies gay; 
For a Lawlan' face he feared nane. 
My gallant braw John Highlandman. 

Sing, hey, &c. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheeks the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 

.Sing, hey, &c. 

But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast; 
My curse upon them every ane, 
They've hang'd my braw John High- 
landman. . 

Sing, hey, &c. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return; 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When I think on John Highlandman. 
.Sing, hey, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

A pigmy Scraper wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle. 

Her strappin limb and gaucy middle 

(He reached nae higher), 
Had hol't his heartie like a riddle. 

And blawn't on tire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, and upward ee. 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three. 
Then, in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
.Set aff, wi' Allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 




THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 



AIR. 
Tune — " Whistle ozure the lave ot." 
Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
And go wi' me and be my dear, 
And then your every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 

1 am a fiddler to my trade, 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd. 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there. 
And oh ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about, till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

Sae merrily's the banes we'll pyke. 
And sun oursels about the dyke, 
And at our leisure, when ye like. 
We'll whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

But bless me wi' your heav'n o' charms. 
And while I kittle hair on thairms. 
Hunger, cauld, and a' sic harms. 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

I am, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy Caird, 
As well as poor Gut-scraper; 

He taks the fiddler by the beard. 
And draws a roosty rapier — 

He swoor, by a' was swearing worth, 

To spit him like pliver. 
Unless he wad from that time forth 

Relinquish her for ever. 

Wi' ghastly ee, ]")oor tweedle-dee 

Upon his hunkers bended, 
And pray'd for grace, wi' ruefu' face, 

And sae the quarrel ended. 

But tho' his little heart did grieve 
When round the tinkler prest her, 

He feigned to snirtle in his sleeve, 
When thus the Caird address'd her : 



Tune — " Clout the Cauldron." 
My bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler is my station : 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground 

In this my occupation; 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enroJl'd 

In many a noble squadron ; 
But vain they search'd,when off I march'd 

To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 

Despise that shrimp, that wither'd imp, 

Wi' a' his noise and cap'rin', 
And tak a share wi' those that bear 

The budget and the apron; 
And by that stoup, my faith and houp. 

And by that dear Kilbagie, 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

May I ne'er weet my craigie. 

And by that stoup, &c. 

RECITATIVO. 

The Caird prevail'd — th' unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk. 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair, 

And partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino, with an air 

That show'd a man o' spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

And made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie, 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft, 

Thro' limpin' wi' the spavie. 
He hirpl'd up, and lap like daft. 

And shor'd them Dainty Davie. 
O boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Tho' Fortune sair upon him laid. 

His heart she ever iniss'd it. 
He had nae wish, but — to be glad, 

Nor want but — when he thirsted; 
He hated not but — to be sad. 

And thus the Muse suggested 
His sang that night. 



^" 




1 


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xrfTlM '. 


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F^ 


1 


.£ 52 THE JOLLY BEGGARS. 


^ 


AIR. 


To lowse his pack, an' wale a sang. 






A ballad 0' the best; 








Tune— " For a that, and a that" 








t. 


L I AM a bard of no regard 


He, rising, rejoicing. 

Between his twa Deborahs, 


J 






Wi' gentlefolks, an' a' that; 


Looks round him, an' found them 








But Homer-like, the glowran byke. 


Impatient for the chorus. 








Frae town tu town I draw that. 








CHORUS. 


.VI K. 








For a' that, and a' that. 


Tune — " 7o//y Mortals, Jill your glasses:' 








And twice as meikle's a' that ; 


See ! the smoking bowl before us. 








I've lost but ane, I've twa behin'. 


Mark our jovial ragged ring; 








I've wife eneugh for a' that. 


Round and round take up the chorus. 








I never drank the Muses' stank. 


And in raptures let us sing : 








Castalia's burn, an' a' that ; 










But there it streams, and richly reams, 


CHORUS. 








My Helicon I ca' that. 


A hg for those by law protected ! 








For a' that, &c. 


Liberty's a glorious feast ! 








Great love I bear to a' the fair, 


Courts for cowards were erected. 








Their humble slave, an' a' that; 


Churches built to please the priest 








But lordly will, I hold it still 










A mortal sin to thraw that. 


What is title? what is treasure? 








For a' that, (S:c. 


What is reputation's care? 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 








In raptures sweet, this hour we meet. 


'Tis no matter, how or where ! 








Wi' mutual love, an' a' that; 


A fig, &c. 








But for how lang the flie may stang. 










Let inclination law that. 


With the ready trick and fable, 








For a' that, &c. 


Round we wander all the day; 








Their tricks and craft hae put me daft. 


And at night, in barn or stable. 








They've ta'en me in, an' a' that; 


Hug our do.xies on the hay. 








But clear your decks, and here's the 


A fig, &c. 








sex ! 
I like the jads for a' that. 


Does the train-attended carriage 
Thro' the country lighter rove? 








For a' that, and a' that. 


Does the sober bed of marriage 








And twice as muckle's a' that. 


Witness brighter scenes of love? 

A fig, &c. 








My dearest bluid, to do them guid. 








They're welcome till't, for a' that. 








RFXITATIVO. 


Life is all a variorum, 








So sung the bard — and Nansie's wa's 


We regard not how it goes ; 
Let them cant about decorum 








Shook with a thunder of applause. 


Who have characters to lose. 








Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 


A fig, &c. 








They toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd 








t their duds, 
? They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 
To quench their lovvan drouth. 


Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train ! 

Here's our ragged brats and callets ! 


'^ 


• 




Then owre again, the jovial thrang 


One and all cry out, Amen ! 








The poet did request. 


A fig, &c 








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THE AULD FARMER'S NEW- YEAR SALUTATION. 



J U THE AULD FARMER'S NEW-YEAR MORNING SALUTA 
TION TO HIS AULD MARE, MAGGIE, 

ON GIVING HER THE ACCUSTOMED -RlPr OF CORN TO HANSEL IN THE NEW YEAR. 




A GUin New-Year I wish thee, Maggie ! 
Ilae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou's howe-backit, now, an' 
knaggie, 

I've seen the ckay. 
Thou could hae gane Hke ony staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

The' now thou's dowie, stiff, an' crazy. 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisie, 
I've seen thee dappl't, sleek an' glaizie^ 

A bonie gray : 
He should been tight that daur't to raize 
thee, 

Ance in a day. 

Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A tilly buirdly, steeve, an' swank, 
x\n' set weel down a shapely shank, 

As e'er tread yird; 
An' could hae flown out-owre a stank, 

Like onie bird. 

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year. 
Sin' thou was my guid-father's meere; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear. 

An' fifty mark ; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear. 

An' thou was stark. 

When first I gaed to woo my Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin wi' your minnie : 
Tho' ye was trickle, slee, an' funnie, 

Ye ne'er was donsie; 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 

An unco sonsie. 

That day, ye pranc'd wi' muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonie bride; 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle-Stewart I could bragged wide, 

For sic a pair. 



Tho' now ye dow but hoyte and hoble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble. 
That day ye was a jinker noble 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far behin'. 

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were driegh. 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' 
skriegh 

An' tak the road ! 
Town's-bodies ran, and stood abeigh. 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow. 
We took the road ay like a swallow : 
At Brooses thou had ne'er a fellow. 

For pith an' speed; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The snia', droop-rumpl't, hunter cattle. 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; 
But sax Scotch miles thou try't their 
mettle. 

An' gart them whaizle : 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 
O' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 

As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ! 

Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun, 

On guid March-weather, 
Hae turn'd sax rood beside our han'. 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't, an' fetch't, an' 

fliskit. 
But thy auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd briskit, 

Wi' pitli an' now'r. 
Till spritty knowes wad rair't and riskit, 

An' sly pet owre. 




TO A MOUSE. 



\Mien frosts lay laiig, an" snaws were 

deep. 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied thy ci^js; a wee-bit heap 

-iboou the limmer; 

I ken"d my Maggie wad na sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car thou never reestit; 

The steyest brae thou wad hae face"t it; 

Thou never lap, an' sten't, and breastit. 

Then stood to blaw ; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
Forbye sax mae, I've seirt awa, 

That thou hast nurst : 
They drew me thretteen pund an" twa. 

The vera worst. 



Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought. 

An' wi' the weary warl' fought I 

An' monie an aiLxious day, I thought 

We wad be beat I 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought, 

Wi' sometliing yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty- servan'. 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin. 
An' thy auld days may end in starvin. 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart. Til reserve ane 

Laid by for you. 

We've worn to crazy years thegither ; 
We'll toyte about wi' ane anither; 
Wi' tent'ie care I'll flit thy tether 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



TO A MOUSE, ON TURNING HER UP IN HER NEST 
WITH THE PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 17S5. 

Thou saw the fields laid bare and ^^•aste, 
An' wear}' winter comin fast. 
An' cozie here, beneath the blast, 

Thou thought to dwell. 
Till crash ! the cruel coulter past, 

Out ihro' thy cell. 

] That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble I 
Xow thou's turn'd out, for a" thy trouble. 

But house or hald. 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

' An' cranreuch cauld ! 

But. Mousie, thou art no thy iane. 
In proving foresight may be, vain: 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men 

Gang aft a-gley. 
An' lea'e us nought but grief an' pain, 
I For promis'd joy. 

I Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
I The present only toucheth thee : 
i But, Och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear I 
An' forward, tho' I canna see, 

I guess an' fear ! 



Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie, 
O, what a panic's in thy breastie ! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty, 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an" chase thee, 

Wi" murd"ring pattle I 

I"m truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union. 
An" justifies that ill opinion, 

"\^T>ich makes thee startle, 
At me, thy poor, earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal I 

I doubt na, whiles, but thou may thieve; 
\Miat then ? poor beastie,thou maun live ! 
A daimen-icker in a thrave 

'.S a sma' request : 
I'll get a blessin wi" the lave, 

And never miss't ! 

Thy wee bit housie, too, in ruin ! 
Its silly wa's the win's are strewin ! 
An' naething, now, to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin, 

Baith snell an' keen ! 



1\ 



^ 



llr A WINTER NIGHT. 55 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



Poor naked ixireiches, ivheresoe'er you are. 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm ! 

How shall your houseless heads, and tin/ed sides, 
Your loop'd and luindow'd raggedness, de/etid you , 

From seasons such as these ? 

Shakespeare. 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure, 
Sharp shivers thru' the leafless bow'r; 
"When Phoebus gies a short-liv'd glow'r, 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark'ning thro' the flaky show'r, 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Poor Labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
While burns, wi' snawy \^'reeths up-choked, 

Wild-eddying swirl. 
Or thro' the mining outlet bocked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle. 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war. 
And thro' the drift, deep-lairing, sprattle, 

Beneath a scar. 

Ilk happing bird, wee, helpless thing ! 
That, in the merry months o' spring. 
Delighted me to hear thee sing, 

What comes o' thee? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy chittering win' 

An' close thy e'e? 

Ev'n you on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd 

My heart forgets, 
W^hile pityless the tempest \\ild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign. 
Dark muffl'd, view'd the dreary plain; 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

Rose in my soul. 
When on my ear this plaintive strain. 

Slow, solemn, stole — 



^" 



-^- 



lie ,6 



A WINTER NIGHT. 



" Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
" And freeze, thou bitter-biting frost ! 
" Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows ! 
" Not all your rage, as now, united shows 
" More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 
"Vengeful malice unrepenting, 
'Than heav'n-illumin'd man on brother man bestows 
" See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
" Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
" Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

" Woe, want, and murder o'er a land ! 
" Ev'n in the peaceful rural vale, 
"Truth, weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
■ How pamper'd Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 
"The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
" With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
' Looks o'er proud property, extended wide; 
" And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

" Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
" A creature of another kind, 
" Some coarser substance, unrefin'd, 
' Plac'd for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, below. 




" Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
" With lordly Honour's lofty brow, 

" The pow'rs you proudly own ? 
" Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 
" Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

" To bless himself alone ! 
" Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

" To love-pretending snares, 
" This boasted honour turns away, 
"Shunning soft pity's Vising sway, 
Regardless of the tears, and unavailing pray'rs ! 
" Perhaps this hour, in mis'ry's squalid nest, 
" She strains your infant to her joyless breast, 
' And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rocking blast ! 




" Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down, 
" Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
"Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 

" Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 
" Ill-satisfied keen nature's clam'rous call, 

" Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself to sleep, 
" While thro' the ragged roof and chinky wall, 
" Chill o'er his slumbers, piles the drifty heap ! 
" Think on the dungeon's grim confine, 
" Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
" Guilt, erring man, relenting view ! 
" But shall thy legal rage pursue 



s> 













/ 


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1 


I EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 57 . 


■- 




" The wretch, already crushed low, 






"By cruel fortune's undeserved blow? 










"Affliction's sons are brothers in distress; 








^ 


^ " A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss ! " *^ 


^ 








I heard nae mair, for Chanticleer 








Shook off the pouthery snaw, 








And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 








A cottage-rousing craw. 








But deep this truth impress'd my mind 








Thro' all His works abroad. 








The heart benevolent and kind 








The most resembles God. 








EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. 








January -{^^i^\. 








While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 


Yet then content would mak us blest ; 








And bar the doors wi' driving snaw. 


Ev'n then, sometimes, we'd snatch a taste 








And hing us ovvre the ingle, 


Of truest happiness. 








I set me down, to pass the time. 


The honest heart that's free frae a' 








And spin a verse or twa 0' rhyme, 


Intended fraud or guile. 








Li hamely, westlin jingle. 


However fortune kick the ba'. 








While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 


Has ay some cause t6 smile : v 








Ben to the chimla lug. 


And mind still, you'll find still. 








I grudge a wee the Great-folk s gift. 


A comfort this nae sma' ; 








That live sae bien an snug: 


Nae mair then, we'll care then. 








I tent less, and want less 


Nae farther can we fa'. 








Their roomy fire-side; 










But hanker and canker. 


What tho', like commoners of air. 








To see their cursed pride. 


We wander out, we know not where, 
But either house or hal' ? 








It's hardly in a body's pow'r. 


Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 








To keep, at times, frae being sour. 


The sweeping vales, and foaming floods, 








To see how things are shar'd ; 


Are free alike to all. 








How best 0' chiels are whyles in want. 


In days when daisies deck the ground, 








While coofs on countless thousands rant, 


And blackbirds whistle clear. 








And ken na how to wair't : 


With honest joy our hearts will bound. 








But, Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 


To see the coming year : 








Tho' we hae little gear. 


On braes when we please, then. 








We're fit to win our daily bread. 


W^e'll sit and sowth a tune; 








As lang's we're hale and fier : 


Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't. 








"Mair spier na, nor fear na," 


And sing't when we hae done. 








x\uld age ne'er mind a feg; 










The last o't, the warst o't. 


It's no in titles nor in rank; 








1 


' Is only but to beg. 


It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, ' 


,■1 








To purchase peace and rest; 










To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 


It's no in making muckle, mair: 










^Vhen banes are craz'd, and bluidis thin, 


It's no in books, it's no in lear, 










Is, doubtless, great distress ! 


To make us truly blest : 








J 

^ 


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) 




^ 


^BnA T- ! .E^ 


y 








EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 



If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest : 

Nae treasures, nor pleasures. 

Could make us happy lang; 
The heart ay's the part ay, 

That makes us right or wrang. 

Think ye, that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge end drive thro' wet an' dry, 

Wi' never reasing toil; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while? 
Alas ! how aft in haughty mood, 
God's creatures they oppress ! 
Or else, neglecting a' that's guid, 
They riot in excess ! 

Baith careless, and fearless, 
Of either heav'n or hell ! 
Esteeming, and deeming 
It's a' an idle tale ! 

Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state; 
And, even should misfortunes come, 
I, here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them yet. 
They gie the wit of age to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel; 
They mak us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses, and crosses, 

Be lessons right severe. 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Ye'll find nae other where. 

But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught less wad wrang the cartes, 

And'flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ; 
And joys that riches ne'er could buy; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a' the pleasures o' the heart. 

The lover an' the frien'; 
Ve hae your Meg, your dearest part. 

And I my darling Jean ! 



It warms me, it charms me. 
To mention but her name : 

It heals me, it beets me, 
And sets me a' on flame ! 

O all ye pow'rs who rule above ! 
O Thou, whose very self art love ! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart 
Or my more dear immortal part, 

Is not more fondly dear ! 
When heart-corroding care and grief 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 
And solace to my breast. 
Thou Being, All-seeing, 

O hear my fervent pray'r; 
Still take her, and make her 
Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, ye tender feelings dear ! 
The smile of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had number'd out my weary days. 

Had it not been for you ! 
P'ate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 
The tenebrific scene. 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean. 

O, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin, rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine. 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly het; 
And then he'll hilch, and stilt, and jimp, 
An rin an unco fit : 

But lest then, the beast then. 

Should rue his hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and dight now 

His sweaty, wizen'd hide. 





THE LAMENT. 



59 



THE LAMENT, 



OCCASIONED BY THE UNFORTUNATE ISSUE OF 



friend's amour. 



Alas ! kow oft docs Goodness ivound itself, 
And sweet Affection /ror'^ tke spring: of 7t 



THOU pale Orb, that silont shines, 
While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 

Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 
And wanders here to wail and weep ! 

^Yith woe I nightly vigils keep. 

Beneath thy wan, unwarming beam ; 

And mourn, in lamentation deep, 
How life and love are all a dream. 

1 joyless view thy rays adorn 

The faintly marked, distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn. 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
ISly fondly-fluttering heart, be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r,Remembrance, cease ! 
Ah ! must the agonizing thrill 

Forever bar returning peace ! 

No idly-feign'd poetic pains. 

My stid, love-lorn lamcntiugs claim; 
No shepherd's pipe — Arcadian strains ; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame : 
The plighted faith; the mutual flame; 

The oft attested Pow'rs above; 
The promis'd father's tender name : 

These were the pledges of my love I 

Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown ! 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and hers alone ! 
And must I think it ! is she gone. 

My secret heart's exulting boast? 
And does she heedless hear my groan? 

And is she ever, ever lost? 

Oh I can she hear so base a heart. 
So lost to honour, lost to truth. 



As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth ! 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth I 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will 
soothe. 
Her sorrows share, and make them 
less? 



Ye ^^ inged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptur'd more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

I\Iy fondly-treasur'd thoughts em- 
ploy 'd. 
That breast, how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty once of room ! 
Ev'n ev'ry ray of hope destroy'd. 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

I The morn that warns th' approaching 
day. 
Awakes me up to toil and woe : 
I see the hours in long array, 

That I must sufier, lingering, slow. 
Full many a pang, and many a throe. 

Keen recollection's direful train. 
Must wring my soul, ere Phoebus, low. 
Shall kiss the distant, western main. 

And when my nightly couch I try, 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
My toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief: 
Or if I slumber, Fancy, chief. 

Reigns, haggard-wild, in sore aftright ; 
Ev'n day, all-bitter brings relief. 

From such a horror-breathing night. 




/^ 




^ 



m 



DESPONDENCY. 



O ! thou bright Queen, who o'er th' 
expanse [sway ! 

Now highest reign'st, with boundless 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-wand'ring, stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away. 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray. 

To mark the mutual-kindling eye. 



Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance 
set! 

Scenes, never, never to return ! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget. 

Again I feel, again I burn ! 
From ev'ry joy and pleasure torn, 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro'; 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY. 



Oppkess'd with grief, oppress'd with 

care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I set me down and sigh : 
O life ! thou art a galling load. 
Along a rough, a weary road. 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim -backward as I cast my view. 
What sick'ning scenes appear ! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro'. 
Too justly I may fear ! 
Still caring, clespairing. 

Must be my bitter doom; 

My woes here shall close ne'er. 

But with the closing tomb ! 

Happy, ye sons of busy life. 
Who, equal to the bustling strife. 

No other view regard ! 
Ev'n when the wished end's deny'd, 
Yet while the busy means are ply'd, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight. 

Unfitted with an aim. 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night. 
And joyless morn the same ; 
You, bustling, and justling. 

Forget each grief and pain; 
I, listless, yet restless, 

Find every prospect vain. 

How blest the Solitary's lot. 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot. 

Within his humble cell. 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly-gather'd fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 



Or, haply, to his ev'ning thought. 

By unfrequented stream. 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint-collected dream : 
While praising, and raising 

His thoughts to Heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring. 
He views the solemn sky. 

Than I, no lonely hermit plac'd 
Where never human footstep trac'd, 

Less fit to play the part; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just to stop, and just to move. 

With self-respecting art : 
But ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste. 
The Solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest ! 
He needs not, he heeds not. 

Or human love or hate, 
Whilst I here, must cry here. 
At perfidy ingrate ! 

Oh ! enviable, early days, [maze. 

When dancing thoughtless pleasure's 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchang'd for riper times. 
To fee the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own ! 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport. 

Like linnets in the bush. 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses. 

That active man engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all. 
Of dim-declining age. 




-±± 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



WINTER. 



A DIRGE. 



The wintry west extends his blast, 

And hail and rain does lilaw; 
Or, the stormy north sends driving forth. 

The blinding sleet and snaw : 
\Vhiie, tumbling brown, the burn comes 
down, 

And roars frae bank to brae : 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 

"The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast," 

The joyless winter-day. 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 



The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My griefs it seems to join; 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 

Thou Pow'r Supreme, whose mighty 
scheme 

These woes of mine fultil. 
Here, lirm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are Thy will ! 
Then all I want, (Oh ! do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



INSCRIBED TO ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ., OF AYR. 

Let not Ambition mock tJicir usrfnl toil, 
Their homely joys, and Jrstiiiy ohsciire; 

Nor Grandeur hear, with a i//s,/,i .'i;fiil smile. 
The short and simple aiuiiu's I'f the Poor. 

Gray 

My lov'd, my honour'd, much respected friend ! 

No mercenary bard his homage pays : 
With honest pride, I scorn each selfish end; 

My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays. 

The lowly train in life's sequester'd scene; 
The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; 

What Aiken in a cottage would have been; 
Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, I ween. 

November chill blaws loud wi' angry sugh; 

The short'ning winter-day is near a close; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh; 

The black'ning trains o' craws to their repose : 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes. 

This night his weekly moil is at an end. 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 

Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hameward bend. 



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62 




7W£ COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 



At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree; 
Th' expectant wee-things, toddlin, stacher through 

To meet their Dad, wi' flichterin noise an' glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin bonilie, 

His clean hearth-stane, his thrifty wifie's smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee. 

Does a' his weary carking cares beguile, 
An' makes him quite forget his labour an' his toil. 

Belyve, the elder bairns come drapping in. 

At service out, amang the farmers roun'; 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie rin 

A cannie errand to a neebor town : 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman-grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparkling in her e'e, 
Comes hame, perhaps, to shew a braw new gown, 

Or deposite her sair-won penny-fee. 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

With joy unfeign'd brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers : 
The social hours, swift-wing'd, unnotic'd fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that he sees or hears; 
The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years; 

Anticipation forward points the view. 
The mother, wi' her needle an' her sheers. 

Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's the new; 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 

Their master's an' their mistress's command. 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
An' mind their labours wi' an eydent hand, 

An' ne'er, tho' out o' sight, to jauk or play : 
An' O ! be sure to fear the Lord alway, 

" An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night ! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 

Implore His counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord aright ! " 

But hark ! a rap comes gently to the door. 

Jenny, wha kens the meaning o' the same, 
Tells how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor. 

To do some errands, and convoy her hame. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 
Wi' heart-struck, anxious care, inquires his name. 

While Jenny hafihns is afraid to speak ; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears, it's nae wild, worthless rake. 

Wi' kindly welcome, Jenny brings him ben; 
A strappan youth; he takes the mother's eye; 




JTC 



A 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT 



Blythe Tennv sees the visit's no ill ta en; 

The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi joy, 

But blate and laithfu', scarce can weel behave; 
The mother, wi' a woman's wiles, can spy 

What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sae grave; 
Weel-pleas'd to think her bairn's respected hke the lave. 

O happy love ! where love like this is found ! 

O heart-felt raptures ! bliss beyond compare ! 
I've paced much this weary, mortal round. 

And sage experience bids me this declare — 
"If Heaven a draught of heavenly pleasure spare, 

One cordial in this melancholy vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving, modest pair. 

In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the ev ning gale. 

Is there, in human form, that liears a heart — 

A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly, ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting youth? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts ! dissembling smooth ! 

Are honour, virtue, conscience, ail exil'd? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 

Points to the parents fondling o'er their child.-' 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distraction wild . 

But now the supper crowns their simple board 

The healsome parritch, chief o' Scotia's food : 
The soupe their only Hawkie does afford. 

That 'yont the hallan snugly chows her cood; 
The dame brings forth in complimental mood. 

To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck, fell. 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 

The frugal wifie, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond add, sin' lint was i' the bell. 

The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face, 

They, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchal grace. 

The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride : 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lyart haffets wearing thin an' bare; 
Those strains that once did sweet in Zion glide. 

He wales a portion with judicious care, 
And " Let us worship God ! " he says, with solemn air. 

They chant their artless notes in simple guise; 

They tune their hearts, by far the noblest aim : 
Perhaps Dundee's wild warbling measures rise. 

Or plaintive i>Iartyrs, worthy of the name; 






THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 




Or noble Elgin beets the heav'nvvard flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compar'd with these, Italian trills are tame; 

The tickl'd ears no heartfelt raptures raise; 
Nae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page, 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's ungracious progeny; 
Or how the royal Bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the stroke of Heaven's avenging ire; 
Or Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire; 
Or other holy Seers that tune the sacred lyre. 

Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme. 

How guiltless blood for guilty man was shed; 
How He, who bore in Heaven the second name. 

Had not on earth whereon to lay His head; 
How His first followers and servants sped; 

The precepts sage they wrote to many a land : 
How he, who lone in Patmos banished. 

Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; 
And heard great Bab'lon's doom pronounc'd by Heaven's command. 

Then kneeling down, to Heaven's Eternal King, 

The saint, the father, and the husband prays : 
Hope "springs exulting on triumphant wing," 

That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays. 

No more to sigh, or shed the bitter tear, 
Together hymning their Creator's praise. 

In such society, yet still more dear; 
While circling Time moves round in an eternal sphere. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's pride. 

In all the pomp of method, and of art. 
When men display to congregations wide 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 
The Power, incens'd, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, the sacerdotal stole; 
But haply, in some cottage far apart. 

May hear, well pleas'd, the language of the soul; 
And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 

Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest : 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 

And proffer up to Heav'n the warm request, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rous nest, 

And decks the lily fair in flow'ry pride, 




±± 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 



A DIRGE. 



65 



IC 



Would, in the way His wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for their little ones provide; 
But chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine preside. 

From scenes like these old Scotia's grandeur springs, 

That makes her lov'd at home, rever'd abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God : " 
And certes, in fair virtue's heavenly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind; 
What is a lordling's pomp? a cumbrous load. 

Disguising oft the wretch of human kind. 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refin'd ! 

O Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 

For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil 

Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet content ! 
And, Oh, may Heaven their simple lives prevent 

From luxury's contagion, weak and vile; 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 

A virtuous populace fliay rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much-lov'd Isle. 

O Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide 

That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted heart; 
Who dar'd to, nobly, stem tyrannic pride, 

Or nobly die, the second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God, peculiarly thou art. 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward ! ) 
O never, never, Scotia's realm desert. 

But still the patriot, and the patriot-bard. 
In bright succession raise, her ornament and guard ! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN. 






When chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare. 
One ev'ning as I wander'd forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man, whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care; 
His face was farrow'd o'er with years. 

And hoary was his hair. 

Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the rev'rend Sage; 
Dost thirst of wealth thy step constrain. 

Or youthful pleasure's rage? 



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Or, haply, prest with cares and woes. 
Too soon thou hast began 

To wander forth, with me, to mourn 
The miseries of Man. 

The sun that overhangs yon moors. 

Out-spreading far and wide. 
Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride; 
I've seen yon weary winter sun 

Twice forty times return : 
And ev'ry time has added proofs, 

That [Man was made to mourn. 





A PRAYER. 




O man ! while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mis-spending all thy precious hours, 

Thy glorious youthful prime ! 
Alternate follies take the sway; 

Licentious passions burn ; 
Which tenfold force give nature's law, 

That Man was made to mourn. 

Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

vSupported in his right, 
But see him on the edge of life. 

With cares and sorrows worn, 
Then age and want, Oh I ill-match'( 
pair ! 

Show Man was made to mourn. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh ! what crowds in ev'ry land 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn, 

That Man was made to mourn. 

Many and sharj) the num'rous ills 

Inwoven with our frames ! 
More pointed still we make ourselves. 

Regret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heaven-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn, 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn ! 



See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful, tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave. 

By nature's law design'd. 
Why was an independent wish 

E'er planted in my mind? 
If not, why am I subject to 

His cruelty, or scorn? 
Or why has man the will and pow'r 

To make his fellow mourn? 

Yet, let not this too much, my son. 

Disturb thy youthful breast ; 
This partial view of human-kind 

Is surely not the last ! 
The poor, oppressed, honest man. 

Had never, sure, been born. 
Had there not been some recompense 

To comfort those that mourn ! 

O Death ! the poor man's dearest friend, 

The kindest and the best ! 
Welcome the hour my aged limbs 

Are laid with thee at rest ! 
The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow. 

From pomp and pleasures torn; 
But, Oh ! a blest relief to those 

That weary-laden mourn ! 



A PRAYER, IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 



() Thou unknown. Almighty (.'ause 

(3f all my hope and fear ! 
In \\hose dread presence, ere an hour. 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

If I have wander'd in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun; 
As something, loudly in my breast. 

Remonstrates I have done ; 

Thou know'st that Thou hast form'd me 
With passions wild and strong; 



And list'ning to their v 
Has often led me wi 



nn<7 voice 



Where human weakness has come short. 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do Thou, All (jood ! for such Thou art. 

In shatles of darkness hide. 

Where with intention I have err'd. 

No other plea I have. 
But, Thou art good ; and Goodness still 

Delighteth to forgive. 




LINES. 



STANZAS ON THE SAME OCCASION. 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? 

Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill between : 

Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewing storms; 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? 

Or Death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; 

I tremble to approach an angry God, 
And justly smart beneath his Sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, " Forgive my foul offence ! " 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my Author health again dispense, 

Again I might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in folly's path might go astray; 

Again exalt the brute, and sink the man; 
Then how should I for Heavenly mercy pray. 

Who act so counter Heavenly mercy's plan? 
Who sin so oft have mourn'd, yet to temptation ran? 

O Thou, great Governor of all below ! 

If I may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the tempest cease to blow, 

And still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me. 

Those headlong furious passions to confine, 
For all unfit I feel my powers to be. 

To rule their torrent in th' allowed line; 
O, aid me with Thy help, Omnipotence Divine ! 




LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE NIGHT, 



THE AUTHOR LEFT 



;e following verses in the room 
ihere he slept. 



O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 

I know Thou wilt me hear; 
When for this scene of jieace and love, 

I make my pray'r sincere. 

The hoary sire — the mortal stroke, 
Long, long, be pleas'd to spare; 

To bless his Httle filial flock. 
And show what good men are. 

She, who her lovely offspring eyes 
With tender hopes and fears, 

O, bless her with a mother's joys. 
But spare a mother's tears ! 






Their hope, their stay, their darlingyouth. 
In manhood's dawning blush ; 

Bless him, thou God of love and truth. 
Up to a parent's wish. 

The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares on ev'ry hancl, 

Guide Thou their steps alway. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 
O'er life's rough ocean driven. 

May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost, 
A family in Heaven ! 
















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- 68 SIX VERSES OF THE 


NINETIETH PSALM. - 


71 






THE FIRST PSALM. 








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The man, in life wherever plac'd, 


The fruitful top is spread on high, 


^ 








Hatii happiness in store, 


And firm the root below. 








Who walks not in the wicked's way, 










Nor learns their guilty lore : 


But he whose blossom buds in guilt 
Shall to the ground be cast, 








Nor from the seat of scornful pride 


And like the rootless stubble tost, 








Casts forth his eyes abroad, 


Before the sweeping blast. 








But with humility and awe 










Still walks before his God. 


For why ? that God the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 








That man shall flourish like the trees 


But hath decreed that wicked men 








Which by the streamlets grow; 


Shall ne'er be truly blest. 








A PRAYER, UNDER THE 


PRESSURE OF VIOLENT 








ANGl 


JISH. 








Thou great Being ! \\hat Thou art 


Sure, Thou, Almighty, canst not act 








Surpasses me to know : 


From cruelty or wrath ! 








Yet sure I am, that known to Thee 


O, free my weary eyes from tears, 








Are all Thy works below. 


Or clobe them fast in death ! 








Thy creature here before Thee stands, 


But if I must afflicted be, 








All wretched and distrest ; 


To suit some wise design; 








Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 


Then, man my soul with firm resolves 








Obey Thy high behest. 


To bear and not repine ! 








THE FIRST SIX VERSES 01 


^^ THE NINETIETH PSALM! 








Thou, the first, the greatest friend 


Appear no more before Thy sight 








. Of all the human race ! 


Than yesterday that's past. 








Whose strong right hand has ever been 










Their stay and dwelling-place ! 


Thou giv'st the word; Thy creature, man, 
Is to existence brought; 








Before the mountains heav'd their heads 


Again Thou say'st, " Ye sons of men. 








Beneath Thy forming hand. 


Return ye into nought ! " 








Before this ponderous globe itself 










Arose at Thy command; 


Thou layest them, with all their cares, 
In everlasting sleep; 








Thatpow'r which rais'd and still upholds 


As with a flood' Thou tak'st them off 






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This universal frame, 


With overwhelming sweep ; 








» From countless, unbeginning time 


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Was ever still the same. 


They flourish like the morning flow'r, 










In beraity's pride array'd; 










Those mighty periods of years 


But long ere night cut down it lies 










Which seem to us so vast, 


All wither'd and decay'd. 








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£ TO RUIN. 69 I 


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TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY, 




ON TURNING ONE DOWN WITH 


THE PLOUGH, IN AI'RIL, 1786. 








Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r, 


Thou lifts thy unassuming head 








Thou's met me in an evil hour ; 


In humble guise; 






P^or 1 maun crush amang the stoure 


But now the share upteavs thy bed, 






Thy slender stem. 


And low thou lies ! 






To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 
Thou bonie gem. 


Such is the fate of artless Maid, 






Sweet flow'ret of the rural shade ! 






Alas ! it's no thy neebor sweet, 
The bonie Lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

\Vi' spreckl'd breast. 


By love's simplicity betray'd, 

And guileless trust. 

Till" she, like thee, all soil'd, is laid 
Low i' the dust. 






When upward-springing, biythe, to greet 


Such is the fate of simple Bard, 






The purpling east 


On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd ! 
Unskilful he to note the card 






Cauld blew the bitter-biting north 


Of prudent lore, 






Upon thy early, humble birth; 


Till billows rage, and gales blow hard. 






Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 


And whelm him o'er ! 






Amid the storm, 








Scarce rear'd above the parent-earth 


Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 






Thy tender form. 


Who long with wants and woes has striv'n, 
By human pride or cunning driv'n 






The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 


To mis'ry's brink. 






High shelt'ring woods and wa's maun 


Till wrench'd of ev'ry stay but lleav'n, 






shield. 


He, ruin'd, sink ! 






But thou, beneath the random bield 








O' clod or stane, 


Ev'n thou who mourn'st the Daisy's fate, 






Adorns the histie stibble-fiekl. 


That fate is thine ^ no distant date; 






Unseen, alane. 


Stern Ruin's ploughshare drives, elate, 
Full on thy bloom. 






There, in thy scanty mantle clad. 


Till crush'd beneath the furrow's weight, 






Thy snawie bosom sun-ward spread. 


Shall be thy doom ! 






TO I 


.UIN. 






All hail ! ine>;oiable lord ! 


And, thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd 






At whose destruction-breathing word 


While life a pleasure can afford. 






The mightiest empires fall ! 


Oh ! hear a wretch's pray'r ! 






Thy cruel, woe-delighted train, 


No more I shrink appall'd, afraid; 






The ministers of grief and pain, 


I court, I beg thy friendly aid. 






A sullen welcome, all ! 


To close this scene of care ! 






With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 


When shall my soul, in silent peace. 






I see each aimed dart; 


Resign life's joyless day; 






For one has cut my dearest tie, 


My weary heart its throbbings cease. 






«■ 


p And quivers in my heart. 


Cold-mould'ring in the clay ? ' 


'^ 






Then low'ring, and pouring, 


No fear more, no te<;.r more, 








The storm no more I dread; 


To stain my lifeless face, 








Tho' thick'ning and black'ning 


Enclasped, and grasped 






i 


Round my devoted head 


W^ithin thy cold embrace ! 

A 








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EPISTLE rO A YOUNG FRIEND. 



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TO MISS LOGAN, WITH BEATTIE'S POEMS, 

FOR A NEW year's GIFT, JANUARY I, 1787. 



Again the silent \vheels of time 
Their annual round have driv'n, 

And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 
Are so much nearer Heav'n. 

No gifts have I from Indian coasts 
The infant year to hail; 



I send you more than India boasts. 
In Edwin's simple tale. 

Our sex with guile and faithless love 
Is charg'd, perhaps too true; 

But may, dear Maid, each lover prove 
An Edwin still to you! 



EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 



I LANG hae thought, my youth fu' friend, 

A something to have sent you, 
Tho' it should serve nae ither end 

Than just a kind memento; 
But how the subject theme may gang. 

Let time and chance determine; 
Perhaps, it may turn out a sang, 

Perhaps, turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the world soon, my lad. 

And, Andrew dear, believe me, 
Ye'll find mankind an unco squad, 

And muckle they may grieve ye : 
For care and trouble set your thought, 

Ev'n when your end's attained; 
And a' your views mav come to nought. 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained. 

I'll no say, men are villains a'; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
Wha hae nae check but human law. 

Are to a few restricked : 
But Och ! mankind are unco weak, 

An' little to be trusted; 
If self the wavering balance shake. 

It's rarely right adjusted ! 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife. 

Their fate we should na censure, 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer; 
A man may hae an honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him; 
A man may tak a neebor's part. 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 



Aye, free, aff han' your story tell. 

When wi' a bosom crony; 
But still keep something to yoursel 

Ye scarcely tell to ony; 
Conceal yoursel as weel's ye can 

Frae critical dissection; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd, sly inspection. 

The sacred lowe o' weel-plac'd love. 

Luxuriantly indulge it; 
But never tempt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it; 
I w"ve the quantum o' the sin. 

The hazard o' concealing; 
But Och ! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling! 

To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her; 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justify 'd by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

Not for a train attendant; 
B:it for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 

To baud the wretch in order; 
But where ye feel your honour grip. 

Let that aye be your border : 
Its slightest touches, instant pause — ■ 

Debar a' side pretences; 
And resolutely keep its laws. 

Uncaring consequences. 














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The great Creator to revere, 


But when on life we're tempest-driv'n. 




■Must sure become the creature; 


A conscience but a canker — 








But still the preaching cant forbear, 


A correspondence fix'd wi' Heaven 








«-' ^ And ev'n the rigid feature : 


Is sure a noble anchor ! 


'- 






Yet ne'er with wits profane to range. 










Be complaisance extended; 


Adieu, dear, amiable Youth ! 








An Atheist-laugh's a poor exchange 
For Deity offended ! 


Your heart can ne'er be wanting ! 
Alay prudence, fortitude, and truth. 
Erect your brow undaunting ! 








When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded; 
Or if she gie a random sting, 


In ploughman phrase, " God send yoL 
Still daily to grow wiser; [speed,' 
And may ye better reck the rede, 








It may be little minded; 


Than ever did th' Adviser ! 








ON A SCOTCH BARD, GON 


E TO THE WEST INDIES 








A' YE wha live by sowps o' drink. 


He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west 








A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live an' never think. 


Lang mustering up a bitter blast; 
Ajillet brak his heart at last. 








Come mourn wi' me ! 


111 may she be ! 








Our billie's gi'en us a jink, 


So, took a berth afore the mast. 








An' o\\ re the sea. 


An' owre the sea. 








Lament him a' ye rantin core, 


To tremble under Fortune's cummock. 








Wha dearly like a random-splore. 


On scarce a bellyfu' o' drummock, 








Nae mair he'll join the merry roar. 
In social key; 


Wi' his proud, independent stomach. 
Could ill agree ; 








For now he's taen anither shore. 


So, row't his hurdles in a hammock. 








An' owre the sea ! 


An' owre the sea. 








The bonie lasses weel may wiss him, 


He ne'er was gi'en to great misguidin', 








And in their dear petitions place him : 


Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 








The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him. 


Wi' him it ne'er was under hidin'. 








Wi' tearfu' e'e; 


He dealt it free : 








For weel I wat they'll sairly miss him 


The Muse was a' that he took pride in. 








That's owre the sea ! 


That's owre the sea. 








O Fortune, they hae room to grumble ! 


Jamaica bodies, use him weel. 








Hadst thou taen aff some drowsy bummle, 


An' hap him in a cozie biel; 








Wha can do nought but fyke an' fumble. 


Ye'll find him av' a daintv chiel. 








'Twad been nae plea; 


'And fu' o' glee; 








But he was gleg as ony wumble. 


He wad na wrang'd the vera deil. 








That's owre the sea ! 


That's owre the sea. 








Auld, cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 

^ n, An' stain them wi' the saut, saut tear : 


Fareweel, my rhyme-composing billie ! 
Your native soil was right ill-willie; 








'Twill mak her poor, auld heart, I fear. 


But may ye flourish like a lily. 








In flinders flee; 


Now bonilie ! 








lie was her Laureat monie a year 


I'll toast ye in my hindmost gillie, 








That's owre the sea ! 


Tho' owre the sea! 








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A DEDICATION. 



TO A HAGGIS. 



Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 

Great chieftain o' the puddin-race ! 

Aboon them a' ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or thairm : 
Weel are ye wordy o' a grace 

As lang's my arm. 

The groaning trencher there ye fill. 
Your hurdles like a distant hill. 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 

His knife see rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright 

Like onie ditch; 
And then, O what a glorious sight, 

\Varm-reekin, rich ! 

Then, horn for horn they stretch an' 

strive, 
Deil tak th« hindmost, on they drive. 
Till a' their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like drums; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, 

Bethankit hums. 



Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad mak her spew 

Wi' perfect sconner. 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view 

On sic a dinner ! 

Poor devil ! see him owre his trash. 

As feckless as a wither'd rash, 

His spindle shank a guid whip-lash. 

His nieve a nit : 
Thro' bloody flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit ! 

But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 

The trembling earth resounds his tread, 

Clap in his vvalie nieve a blade. 

He'll mak it whissle; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sued, 

Like taps o' thiissle. 

Ye Pow'rs, wha mak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld .Scotland wants nae slinking ware 

That jaups in luggies; 
But, if you want her gratefu' prayer, 

Gie her a Haggis ! 



A DEDICATION TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 



Expect na. Sir, in this narration, 
A fleechin, fleth'rin Dedication, 
To roose you up, an' ca' you guid. 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bluid. 
Because ye're sirnam'd like his Grace, 
Perhaps related to the race ; 
Then when I'm tir'd — and sae are ye, 
Wi' mony a fulsome, sinfu' lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do — maun do, Sir, wi' them 
wha [fou; 

Maun please the great folk for a wame- 
For me ! sae laigh I needna bow, 



For, Lord be thankit, I can plough ; 
And when I downa yoke a naig. 
Then, Lord be thankit, I can beg; 
Sae I shall say, an' that's nae flatt'rin. 
It's just sic Poet an' sic Patron. 

The Poet, some guid angel help him, 
Or else, I fear, some ill ane skelp him ,' 
He may do weel for a' he's done yet. 
But only — he's no just begun yet. 

The Patron (Sir, ye maun forgie me, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me), 
On ev'ry hand it will allow'd be. 
He's just — nae better than he should be 



^ 




A DEDICATION. 



73 



I readily and freely grant, 
He dovvna see a poor man want; 
What's no his ain he winna tak it, 
What ance he says he winna break it; 
Ought he can lend he'll not refus't, 
Till aft hisguidness is abus'd; 
And rascals whyles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang : 
As master, landlord, husliand, father. 
He does na fail his part in either. 

But then, nae thanks to him for a 
that; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; 
It's naething but a milder feature 
Of our poor, sinfu', corrupt nature : 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
'Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunters wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthodoxy. 
That he's the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain ! 
Vain is his hope, whase stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and justice ! 

No — stretch a point to catch a plack ; 
Abuse a brother to his back ; 
Steal thro' the winnock frae a whore. 
Cut point the rake that talcs the door : 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And hand their noses to the grunstane. 
Ply ev'ry art, o' legal thieving; 
No matter, stick to sound believing. 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile 

graces, 
Wi' weel-spread looves, an' lang, wry 

faces ; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan. 
And damn a' parties but your own; 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch jjeliever. 

O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day squeel in quaking terror ! 



;i 



When vengeance draws the sword in 

wrath, 
And in the lire throws the sheath; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets till Heav'n commission gies 

him : 
While o'er the harp pale mis'ry moans. 
And strikes the ever-deep'ning tones, 
Stilllouder shrieks, andheavier groans! 

Your pardon. Sir, for this digression, 
I maist forgat my Dedication ; 
But when divinity comes 'cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose me. 

So, Sir, ye see 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper. 
When a' my works I did review, 
To dedicate them. Sir, to You : 
Because (ye need na tak it ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel. 

Then patronize them wi' your favour. 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said, ever pray : 
But that's a word I need na say : 
For prayin I hae little skill o't ; 
I'm baith dead-sweer, an' wretched ill 

o't; 
But I'se repeat each poor man's pray'r. 
That kens or hears about you. Sir. — 

" May ne'er misfortune's gowling bark 
Howl thro' the dwelling o' the Clerk ! 
May ne'er his gen'rous, honest heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart ! 
May Kennedy's far-honour'd name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame. 
Till Hamiltons, at least a dizen. 
Are frae their nuptial labours risen : 
Five bonie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stout an' able. 
To serve their King and Country weel. 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days; 
Till his M-ee, curlie John's ier-oe. 
When ebbing life nae mair shall flow, 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow !" 

I will not wind a lang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion : 




F=F 



^ 



74 



ro A LOUSE. 



But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and 

favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which Pow'rs above prevent) 
That iron-hearted carl. Want, 
Attended in his grim advances, 
By sad mistakes, and black mischances. 
While hopes, and joys, and pleasures 
fly him, 



Make you as poor a dog as 1 am, 
Vour humble servant then no more; 
For who would humbly serve the poor? 
But, by a poor man's hopes in Ileav'n ! 
While recollection's pow'r is given, 
If, in the vale of humble life. 
The victim sad of fortune's strife, 
I, thro' the tender gushing tear. 
Should recognise my Master dear. 
If friendless, low, a\ e meet together. 
Then, Sir, your hand — my Friend and 
Brother ! 



TO A LOUSE, ON SEEING ONE ON A LADY'S 
BONNET, AT CHURCH. 



Ha ! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin ferlie ! 
Your impudence protects you sairly : 
I canna say but ye strunt rarely, 

Owre gauze and lace; 
Tho" faith, I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugly, creepin, blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare ye set your tit upon her, 

Sae fine a lady ! 
Gae somewhere else, and seek your 
dinner 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffet squattle; 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and 

sprattle 
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle. 

In shoals and nations; 
Whare horn nor bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now baud ye there, ye're out o' sight. 
Below the fatt'rels, snug an' tight; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'U no be right 

Till ye've got on it. 
The vera tapmost, tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 



My sooth ! right bauld ye set your nose 

out. 
As plump and gray as onie grozet; 

for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, red smeddum, 
I'd gie you sic a hearty doze o't. 

Wad dress your droddum ! 

1 wad na been surpris'd to spy 
You on an auld wife's flainen toy; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

On's wyliecoat; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi ! fie. 

How daur ye do't? 

O, Jenny, dinna toss your head. 
An' set your beauties a' abread ! 
Ye little ken «hat cursed speed 

The blastie's makin ! 
Thae winks and finger-ends, I dread. 

Are notice takin ! 

O wad some Pow'r the giftie gie us 

To see oursels as others see us ! 

It wad frae monie a blunder free us 

And foolish notion : 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'e us, 

And ev'n Devotion ! 




n 



EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tovv'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly scatter'd flow'rs, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here Wealth still swells the golden tide. 

As busy Trade his labours plies ; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise; 
Mere Justice, from her native skies. 

High wields her Ijalanceand her rod; 
There Learning uith his eagle eyes. 

Seeks Science in her coy abode. 

Thy sons, Edina, social, kind. 

With open arms the stranger hail; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale ; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim : 
And never may their sources fail ! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

Thy daughters bright thy walks adorn. 

Gay as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn. 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy ! 
Fair Burnet strikes th' adoring eye, 

Heaven's beauties on my fancy shine; 
I see the Sire of Love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine ! 



There watching high the least alarms. 

Thy rough, rude fortress gleams afar; 
Like some bold vet'ran, gray in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar : 
The pond'rous wall and massy bar. 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock. 
Have oft withstood assailing \\-ar. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying 
tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes, had their royal home : 
Alas, how chang'd the times to come ! 

Their royal name low in the dust ! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam ! 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just 1 

Wild beats my heart, to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks "and ruin'd gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore : 
Ev'n I who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply my sires have left their shed. 
And fac'd grim danger's loudest roar, 

Bold-following where your fathers led ! 

Edina ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs. 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet 

Sat Legislation's sov'reign pow'rs ! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flow'rs. 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd. 
And singing, lone, the ling'ring horrs, 

I shelter in thy honour'd shade. 




EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK, .\N OLD SCOTTISH BARD. 



While briers an' woodbines buddi 

green. 
An' paitricks scraichin loud at e'en, 
.\n' morning poussie whiddin seen, 

Inspire my Muse, 
This freedom, in an unknown frien', 

I pray excuse. 



On Fasten-een we had a rockin, 
To ca' the crack and \\'eave our stock- 
in ; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin. 

Ye need na' doubt; 
At length we had a hearty yokin 

At sang about. 



# 




EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK. 



There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best, 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the 
breast, 

A' to the life. 

Tve scarce heard ought describ'd sae 

weel, 
What gen'rous, manly bosoms feel; 
Thought I, " Can this be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ! " 
~^hey told me 'twas an odd kind chiel 

About Muirkirk. 

It pat me fidgin-fain to hear't. 
And sae about him there I spier't; 
Then a' that ken'd him round declar'd 

He had ingine, 
That name excell'd it, few cam near't. 

It was sae fine. 

That, set him to a pint of ale. 

An' either douce or merry tale, 

Or rhymes an' sangs he'd made himsel. 

Or witty catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Tiviotdale, 

He had few matches. 

Then up I gat, an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pleugh and 

graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death. 

At some dyke-back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 

But, first an' foremost, I should tell, 
iVmaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jingle fell, 

Tho' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel, 

♦ Does weel enough. 

I am nae Poet, in a sense, 

But just a Rhymer, like, by chance, 

An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter? 
Whene'er my ]\Iuse does on me glance, 

X jingle at her. 



Your critic-folk may cock their nose, 
And say, " How can you e'er propose, 
You wha ken hardly verse frae prose, 

To mak a sang? " 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 

Ye 're maybe wrang. 

\Vhat's a' your jargon o' your schools. 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools; 
If honest nature made you fools. 

What sairs your grammars? 
Ye'd better ta'en up spades and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers. 

A set o' dull, conceited hashes, 
Confuse their brains in college classes ! 
They gang in stirks, Lmd come out asses. 

Plain truth to speak; 
An' syne they think to climb Parnassus 

By dint o' Greek ! 

Gie me ae spark o' Nature's fire, 

That's a' the learning I desire; 

Then tho' I drudge thro' dub an' mire 

At pleugh or cart. 
My Muse, though hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 

for a spunk o' Allan's glee. 

Or Ferguson's, the haul J an' slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's, my friend to be, 

If I can hit it ! 
That would be lear eneugh for me. 

If I could get it. 

Now, Sir, if ye hae friends enow, 
Tho' real friends, I b'lieve, are few, 
Yet, if your catalogue be fou, 

I'se no insist, 
But gif ye \\'ant ae friend that's true, 

I'm on your list. 

1 winna bla\\' about mysel. 
As ill I like my fauts to tell; 

But friends, an' folks that wish me well. 
They sometimes roose me; 

The' I maun own, as munie still 
As far abuse me. 

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to me, 
I like the lasses — Gude forgie me ! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae me, 



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'. EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRATK. 77 1 




At dance or fair; 


Ev'n love an' friendship, should give 






Maybe some ither thing tliey gie me 


place 








They M'eel can spare. 


To catch-the-plack ! 






V 


■> 


I dinna like to see your face, '^ 








But Mauchline race, or Mauchline fair, 


Nor hear your crack. 








I should be proud to meet you there; 










We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 


But ye whom social pleasure charms. 








If we forgather, 


Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms. 








An' hae a swap o' rhymin-ware 


Who hold your being on the terms. 








Wi' ane anither. 


" Each aid the others," 








The foar-gill chap, we'se gar him clatter. 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin water; 


Come to my bowl, come to my arms. 
My friends, my brothers ! 








Syne we'll sit down an' tak our whitter, 


But to conclude my lang epistle. 
As my auld pen's worn to the grissle; 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle. 
Who am, most fervent. 








To cheer our heart; 
An' faith, we'se be acquainted better 
Before we part 








Awa, ye selfish, warly race. 


While I can either sing, or whissle, 








Wha think that havins, sense, an' grace, 


Your friend and servant. 








TO THE 


: SAME. 








April 21, 1785. 








While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, 


" Shall bauld Lapraik, the king 0' hearts, 








An' pownies reek in pleugh or braik. 


Tho' mankind were a pack 0' cartes. 








This hour on e'enin's edge I take, 


Roose you sae weel for your deserts. 








To own I'm debtor. 


In terms sae friendly, 








To honest-hearted, auld Lapraik, 


Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts, 








For his kind letter. 


An' thank him kindly ! " 








Forjesket sair, with weary legs. 


Sae I gat paper in a blink. 








Rattlin the corn out-owre the rigs. 


An' down gaed stumpie in the ink : 








Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 


Quoth I, " Before I sleep a wink, 








Their ten-hours' bite. 


I vow I'll close it; 








My awkart Muse sair pleads and begs. 


An' if ye winna mak it clink. 








I would na write. 


By Jove I'll prose it ! " 








The tapetless, ramfeezl'd hizzie, 


Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 








She's saft at best, and something lazy. 


In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither, 








Quo' she, " Ye ken, we've been sae busy, 


Or some hotch-potch that's rightly 








This month an' mair. 


neither, 








That trouth my head is grown quite 


Let time mak proof; 








dizzie. 


But I shall scribble down some blether 








An' something sair." 


Just clean aff-loof. 








Her dowff excuses pat me mad; 


My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' carp 






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1 


, " Conscience," says I, " Ye thowless jad 1 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

Tins vera night; 
So dinna ye affront your trade, 

But rhyme it right. 


Tho' fortune use you hard and sharp; r^ 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 

Wi' gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how fortune \vaft an' warp. 

She's but a bitch. 

J[ 

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- 78 7^0 WILLTAM SIMPSON. \i 


She's gien me monie a jirt an' fleg. 
Sin' I could striddle owre a rig; 
But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg 

Wi' lyart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, an' shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow ! 


Were this the charter of our state, 
" On pain 0' hell be rich an' great," 
Damnation then would be our fate, 

Beyond remead; 
But, thanks to Hea\ en ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 




Now comes the sax an' twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer 

Frae year to year : 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 

1. Rob, am here. 


I'"or thus the royal mandate ran, 
When lirst the liuman race began, 
" The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
'Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan. 

And none but he ! " 






Do ye envy the city Gent, 

Behind a kist to lie an' sklent. 

Or purse-proud, big wi' cent per cent ; 

An' muckle wame, 
In some bit Brugh to represent 

A Bailie's name? 


mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers of the ragged Nine, 
Poor, thoughtless devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons of Mammon's line 

Are dark as night. 






Or is 't the paughty, feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffl'd sark an' glancing cane, 
Wha thinks himselnaesheep-shank bane. 

But lordly stalks, 
While caps and bonnets aft" are taen, 

As by he walks? 


Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' 

growl, 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl. 

The forest's fright; 
Or m some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 






" O Thou wha gies us each guid gift ! 

Gie me o' wit an' sense a lift, 

Then turn me, if Thou please, adrift, 

Thro' Scotland wide; 
Wi' cits nor lairds I wadna shift, 

In a' tlieir pride ! " 


Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies. 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, an' joys. 

In some mild sphere, 
Still closer knit in friendship's ties 

Each passing year ! 






TO WILLIAI 


V[ SIMPSON, 






OC///L 


TREE. May, 1785. 






I ciAT your letter, winsome Willie; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie; 
Tho' I maun say't, I wad be silly. 

An' unco vain, 
Should I believe, my coaxin billie, 

Your flatterin strain. 


My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should I but dare a hope to speel, 
Wi' Allan, or wi' Gilberttield, 

The braes 0' fame; 
Or Ferguson, the writer-chiel, 

A deathless name. 






'] 


But I'se beheve ye kmdly meant it, 
■» I sud be laith to think ye hmted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor Musie; 
Tho' in sic phrasin terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 


(O Ferguson ! thy glorious parts 

111 suited law's dry, musty arts ! '\ ' 

My curse upon your whunstane hearts. 

Ye Enbrugh Gentry ! 
The tythe 0' what ye waste at cartes 

Wad stow'd his pantry !^ 






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TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 



Yet when a tale comes i' my head, 

Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 

As whiles they're like to be my dead, 

(O sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed; 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, 

She's gotten Poets o' her ain, 

Chiels wha their chanters Minna hain. 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes a' resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Nae Poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measur'd style; 
She lay like some unkend-of isle. 

Beside New Holland, 
Or where wild-meeting oceans boil 

Besouth Magellan. 



Ramsay an' famous Ferguson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon; 
Yarrow an' Tweed, to mony a tune, 

Owre Scotland's rings, 
\Yhile Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an' Doon, 

Naebody sings. 

Th' Ilissus, Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in mony a tunefu' line ! 
But, Willie, set your fit to mine, 

i\n' cock your crest. 
We'll gar our streams an' burnies shine 

Up wi' the best. 

We'll sing auld Coila's plains an' fells, 
tier moors red-brown wi' heather bells. 
Pier banks an' braes, her dens an' dells. 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree, as story tells, 

Frae Southron billies. 



At Wallace' name, what Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring-tide flood ! 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side. 
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 

Or glorious dy'd. 



Jt 



O, sweet are Coila's haughs an" woods. 
When lintwhites chant amang the buds, 
And jinkin hares, in amorous whids, 

Tneir loves enjoy. 
While thro' the braes the cushat croods 

Wi' wailfu' cry ! 

Ev'n winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro' the naked tree; 
Or frosts on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray; 
i Or blinding drifts wild-furious flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

O Nature ! a' thy shews an' forms 

To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms ! 

Whether the summer kindly warms, 

Wi' life an' light. 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms. 

The lang, dark night ! 

The muse, na Poet ever fand her. 
Till by himsel he learn'd to wander, 
Adown some trottin burn's meander. 

An' no think lang; 
O sweet, to stray an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang ! 

The warly race may drudge an' drive, 
Hog-shouther, jundie, stretch, an' strive. 
Let me fair Nature's face descrive, 

And I, wi' pleasure. 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive 

Bum owre their treasure. 

Fare weel,"my rhyme-composing brither ! " 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither : 
Now let us lay our heads thegither. 

In love fraternal : 
May Envy wallop in a tether, 

Black fiend, infernal ! 

While Highlandmen hate tolls an' taxes; 
While moorlan' herds like guid, fat 

braxies ; 
While Terra Firma, on her axis. 

Diurnal turns, 
Count on a friend, in faith an' practice. 
In Robert Burns. 




^ 





zt± 



TO WILLIAM s airs ON. 



POSTSCRTPT. 




My memory's no worth a preen; 

I had amaist forgotten clean, 

Ve bade me write you what they mean 

By this New-Light, 
"Rout which our herds sae aft have been 

Maist lilve to fight. 



In days wlien manl<ind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to 
balance, 

Or rules to gie, 
But spak their thoughts in plain, biaid 
Lallans, 

Like you or me. 

Li thae auld times, they thought the 

moon, 
Just like a sark, or pair o' shoon. 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewin, 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new one. 



This past for certain, undisputed; 

It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it. 

Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'd it wrang; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Both loud an' lang. 



Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk. 

An out o' sight, 
An' backlins-comin, to the leak. 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd, it was affirm'd; 
The herds an' hissels were alarm'd : 
The rev'rend gray-beards rav'd an' 
storm' d, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 



Yxa.e less to mair it gaed to sticks; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' brunt. 

This game was play'd in monie lands. 
An' auld-light caddies bure sic hands, 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks. 
The lairds forbad, by sti-ict commands. 

Sic bluidy pranks. 

But new-light herds gat sic a cowe. 
Folk thought them ruin'dstick-an-stowe, 
Till now amaist on ev'ry knowe 

Ye'U find ane plac'd; 
An' some, their new-light fair avow, 

Just quite barefac'd. 

Nae doubt the auld-light Hocks are 

bleatin; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin ; 
Mysel, I've even seen them greetin 

Wi' girnin spite. 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 

But shortly they will cowe the louns ! 
Some auld-light herds in neebor towns 
Are mind't, in things they call balloons, 

To tak a flight. 
An' stay ae month amang the moons, 

An' see them right. 

Guid observation they will gie them; 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e 

them. 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' 
them. 

Just i' their pouch. 
An' when the new-light billies see them, 
I think they'll crouch ! 

Sae, ye observe that a' this clatter 

Is naething but a " moonshine matter " ; 

But tho' dull-prose folk Latin splatter 

In logic tulzie, 
I hope, we Bardies ken some better 

Than mind sic brulzie. 



s 



^Tl'^l :^^^ ^ ^PR;>\ 


1£ EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE. 8i -.- 


J L EPISTLE TO JOHN RANKINE, J L 


ENCLOSING SOME POEMS. 


-O ROUGH, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 


A bonie hen, 


The wale o' cocks for fun an' dvinkin ! 


And, as the twilight was begun, 


There's monie godly folks are thinkin, 


Thought nane wad ken. 


Your dreams an' tricks 




Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin, 


The poor, wee thing was little hurt; 


Straught to auld Nick's. 


I straikit it a wee for sport. 




Ne'er thinkin they wad fash me for't; 


Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants. 


But, Deil-ma-care ! 


And in your wicked, druken rants, 


Somebody tells the poacher-court 


Ye make a devil o' the saunts, 


The hale affair. 


An' till them fou; 




And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 


Some auld, us'd hands had ta'en a note, 


Are a' seen thro'. 


That sic a hen had got a shot; 




I was suspected for the plot; 


Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it ! 


I scorn'd to lie ; 


That holy robe, O dinna tear it ! 


So gat the whissle o' my groat. 


Spare't for their sakes wha aften wear it, 


An' pay't the fee. 


The lads in black ; 




But your curst wit, ^^'hen it comes near it, 


But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 


Rives't aff their back. 


An' by my pouther an' my hail. 




An' by my hen, an' by her tail. 


Think,wickedsinner,whaye'reskaithing, 


I vow an' swear ! 


It's just the blue-gown badge an'claithing 


The game shall pay, o'er moor an' dale, 


O' saunts; takthat,yelea'e themnaithing 


For this, niest year. 


To ken them by. 




Frae ony unregenerate heathen 


As soon's the clockin-time is by. 


Like you or I. 


An' the wee pouts begun to cry. 




Lord, I'se hae sportin by an' by, 


I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 


For my gowd guinea; 


A' that I bargain'd for, an' mair ; 


Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 


Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 


For't, in Virginia. 


I will expect. 




Yon sang, ye'll sen't, wi' cannie care. 


Trowth, they had muckle for to blame ! 


And no neglect. 


'Twas neither broken wing nor limb. 




But twa-three draps about the wame 


Tho', faith, sma' heart hae I to sing ! 


Scarce thro' the feathers; 


My Muse dow scarcely spread her wing ! 


An' baith a yellow George to claim. 


I've play'd mysel a bonie spring, 


An' thole their blethers! 


An' danc'd my till ! 




I'd better gaen an' sair't the king 


It pits me aye as mad's a hare; 


•^ r> At Bunker's Hill. 


So I can rhyme nor write nae mair; '\ p 




But pennyworths again is fair. 


'Twas ae night lately, in my fun. 


When time's expedient : 


I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 


Meanwhile I am, respected Sir, 


An' lirought a paitrick to the grun, 


Your most obedient. 


^^Qrq . 


1=drJ>' 




WRITTEN IN FRIARS-CAUSE HERMITAGE. 



WRITFEN IN FRIARS-CARSE HERMITAGE, 



If 



ON NITH-SIDE. 




Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deckt in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine ev'ry hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 

As Youth and Love, with sprightly 
dance. 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her syren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair ; 
Let Prudence bless Enjoyment's cup. 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh, 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale? 
Check thy climbing step, elate. 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Dangers, eagle-pinioned, bold. 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
Whil^ cheerful Peace, with linnet song, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to long repose; 
As life itself becomes disease. 
Seek the chimney-nook of ease. 
There ruminate with sober thought, 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and 

wrought ; 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not — art thou high or low? 
Did thy fortune ebb or flow? 
Did many talents gild thy span? 
Or frugal Nature grudge thee one? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must shortly find. 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n 
To Virtue or to Vice is giv'n. 
Say, to be just, and kind, and wise, 
There solid self-enjoyment lies; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless ways, 



Lead to be wretched, vile, and base. 

Thus resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 
Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night, where dawn shall never break, 
Till future life, future no more. 
To light and joy the good restore. 
To light and joy unknown before. 

Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
Quod the Beadsman of Nith-side. 



Glenriddel Hermitage, June ■z'&th, 17I 

FROM THE M.S. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed. 
Be thou deckt in silken stole. 
Grave these maxims on thy soul. 

Life is but a day at most, 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost; 
Hope not sunshine every hour. 
Fear not clouds will always lour. 
Happiness is but a name, 
Make content and ease thy aim. 
Ambition is a meteor gleam, 
Fame, an idle restless dream : 
Peace, the tenderest flower of spring; 
Pleasures, insects on the wing ; 
Those that sip the dew alone, 
Make the butterflies thy own; 
Those that would the bloom devour, 
Crush the locusts, save the flower. 
For the future be prepar'd. 
Guard, wherever thou canst guard; 
But thy utmost duly done. 
Welcome what thou canst not shun. 
Follies past give thou to air, 
Make their consequence thy care : 
Keep the name of Man in mind. 
And dishonour not thy kind. 
Reverence, with lowly heart, 
Him whose wondrous work thou art: 
Keep His goodness still in view. 
Thy Trust, and Thy Example too. 
Stranger, go ! Heaven be thy guide ! 
Quod the Beadsman of Nithe-side. 







[ 


/<:fT1M ' ■ 


-^=Krk 


1 


/\ l<H i 


.1 ELEGY. ' 83 -.. 


. 


ODE, SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF MRS. OSWALD. 

Dweller in yon dungeon dark, antistrophe. 


' 




Hangman of creation, mark ! 


Plunderer of armies, lift thinf eyes, 






Who in widow-weeds appears, 


(A while forbear, ye tort'ring fiends,) 






Laden with unhonour'd years, 


Seest thou whose step unwilling hither 






Noosing with care a bursting purse, 


bends? 






Baited with many a deadly curse ! 


No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies; 
'Tis thy trusty quondam mate, 
Doom'd to share thy fiery fate. 






STROPHE. 


.She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 






View the wither'd beldam's face — 


EPODE. 






Can thy keen inspection trace 


And are they of no more avail, 






Aught of humanity's sweet melting 


Ten thousand glitt'ring pounds a year? 






grace ? 


In other worlds can Mammon fail. 






Note that eye, 'tis rheum o'erflows. 


Omnipotent as he is here? 






Pity's flood there never rose. 


0, bitter mock'ry of the pompous bier, 






See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 


While down the wretched vital part is 






Hands that took — but never gave. 


driv'n ! 






Keeper of Mammon's iron chest. 


The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a 






Lo, there she goes, unpitied and unblest 


conscience clear. 






.She goes, but not to realms of ever- 


Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to 






lasting rcLit 1 


Heav'n. 






ELEGY ON CAPT. MATTHEW HENDERSON, 






A GENTLEMAN WHO HELD THE PATENT FOR HIS HONOURS IMMEDIATELY FROM AL.MIGHTY GOD. 






But now /lis radiant course is run. 






For Matiheivs course was bright; 






His soul mas like the glorious sun. 






A matchless, Heav,ily Light. 






Death ! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 


Ye hills, near neebors 0' the starns, 






The meikle devil wi' a woodie 


That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 






Haurl thee hame to his black smiddie. 


Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing earns, 






O'er hurcheon hides, 


Where echo slumbers ! 






And like stock-fish come o'er his studdie 


Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 






Wi' thy auld sides ! 


My wailing numbers 1 






He's gane, he's gane ! he's frae us torn. 








The ae best fellow e'er was born ! 


Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 






■^ p Thee, Matthew, Nature's s^V shall 


Ye haz'lly shaws and briery dens ! 'I 


^ 




mourn 


Ye burnies, wimplin down your glens, 






By wood and wild, 


Wi' toddlin din. 






Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn. 


Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 






Frae man exil'd. 


Frae lin to lin. 






tt % 
"MX XF 


i 


\./ ^^_| 5 s \^{—^ 


^^A . ■ ITC-^ 





Mourn, little harebells o'er the lee; 
Ve stately foxgloves fair to see; 
Ye woodi)ines hanging bonilie, 

In scented bow'ry; 
Ve roses on your thorny tree, 

The first o' flow'rs. 

At dawn, when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at his head, 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

r th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins whiddin thro' the glade. 

Come join my wail. 

Mourn, ye wee songsters o' the wood; 
Ye grouse that crap the heather bud ; 
Ye curlews calling thro' a clud; 

Ye whistling plover; 
And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood; 

He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals, 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake; 
Ye bitterns, till the ([uagmire reels, 

Rair for his sake. 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' day, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore. 
Tell thae far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

^Vham we deplore. 

Ye houlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 

In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r, 

What time the moon, wi' silent glowr, 

Sets up her horn. 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

() rivers, forests, hills, and plains! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe; 
And frae my een the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 

Mourn, spring, thou darling of the year ! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: 
Thou, simmer, while each corny spear 



Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear. 
For him that's dead ! 

Thou, autumn, wi' thy yellow hair. 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, winter, hurling thro' the air 

The roaring !)last. 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost ! 

Mourn him, thou sun, great source of 

light ! 
Mourn, empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn ! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his 
flight, ^ 

Ne'er to return. 

O Henderson ! the man ! the brother ! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever? 
And hast thou crost that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound? 
Like thee, where shall I find another. 

The world around? 

Go to your sculptur'd tombs, ye Great, 
In a' the tinsel trash o' state ! 
But by thy honest turf I'll wait. 

Thou man of worth ! 
And weep thee ae best fellow's fate 

E'er lay in earth. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger ! my story's brief. 
And truth I shall relate, man; 

I tell nae common tale o' grief. 
For Matthew \^■as a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast. 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man; 

A look of pity hither cast. 

For Mhtthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art. 

That passest by this grave, man. 

There moulders here a gallant heart; 
For Matthew was a brave man. 



^ 













i 


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1 


LAMENT OF MARY 


QUEEN OF SCOTS. 85 - 


—1 




If thou on men, their works and ways. 


This was a kinsman 0' thy ain, 






Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 


For Matthew was a true man. 










Here lies wha weel had won thy praise, 












' For Matthew was a bright man. 


If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire. 










And ne'er gude wine did fear, man; 






If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 


This was thy billie, dam, and sire, 






Wad life itself resign, man; 


For Matthew was a cjueer man. 






The sympathetic tear maun fa', 








For Matthew was a kind man. 


If only whiggish whingin sot. 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man: 






If thou art staunch without a stain, 


May dool and sorrow be his lot. 






Like the unchanging blue, man; 


For Matthew was a rare man. 






LAMENT OF MARY QUE 


:en of scots, on the 






APPROACH 


OF SPRING. 






Now Nature hangs her mantle green 


And I'm the sov'reign of Scotland, 






On every blooming tree, 


And mony a traitor there; 






And spreads her rheetc; o' daisies white 


\'et here I lie in foreign bands, 






Out-owre the grassy lea : 


And never-ending care. 






Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 








And glads the azure skies; 


But as for thee, thou false woman, 






But nought can glad the weary wight 


My sister and my fae, 






That fast in durance lies. 


Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 
That thro' thy soul shall gae : 






Now laverocks wake the merry morn, 


The weeping blood in woman's breast 






Aloft on dewy wing; 
The merle, in his noontide bow'r, 


Was never known to thee; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 






Makes woodland echoes ring; 


Frae woman's pitying ee. 






The mavis mild wi' many a note. 


My son ! my son ! may kinder stars 






Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 


Upon thy fortune shine ; 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign. 






Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 


That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 






Now blooms the lily by the bank, 


Or turn their hearts to thee : 






The primrose down the brae; 


And where thou meet'st thy mother's 






The hawthorn's budding in the glen. 


friend. 






And milk-white is the slae : 


Remember him for me ! 






The meanest hind in fair Scotland 








May rove their sweets amang; 


Oh ! soon, to mc, may summer-suns 






But I, the Queen of a' Scotland, 


Nae mair light up the morn ! 








Maun he m prison Strang. 


Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 










I was the Queen o' bonie France, 

Where happy I hae been, 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, 


Wave o'er the yellow corn ! <^ 
And in the narrow house 0' death 

Let winter round me rave; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring. 








{ 


As lilythe lay down at e'en : 


Bloom on my peaceful gra\c ! 

, .1 


t 

5 






V 


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¥ 




__ 








TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 



EPISTLE TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. 





When Nature her great master-piecf design'd, 
And fram'd her last, best work, the human mind, 
Her eye intent on all the mazy plan, 
She form'd of various parts the various man. 

Then first she calls the useful many forth; 
Plain plodding industry, and S(jber worth : 
Thence peasants, farmers, native sons of earth. 
And merchandise' whole genus take their birth : 
Each prudent cit a warm existence finds. 
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet. 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires; 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow. 
She kneads the lumpish philosophic dough. 
Then marks the unyielding mass with grave designs 
Law, physic, politics, and deep divines : 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles. 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order'd system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd, pronounc'd it very good; 
But ere she gave creating labour o'er. 
Half-jest, she try'd one curious labour more; 
Some spumy, fiery, ignis fatuus matter. 
Such as the slightest breath of air might scatter ; 
With arch alacrity and conscious glee 
(Nature may have her whim as well as we, 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to show it) 
She forms the thing, and christens it — a Poet. 
Creature, tho' oft the prey of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day, unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd t' amuse his graver friends, 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage ends: 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; 
Prone to enjoy each pleasure riches give, 
Yet haply wanting wherewithal to live : 
Longing to wipe each tear, to heal each groan. 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

But honest Nature is not quite a Turk, 
She laugh'd at first, then felt for her poor work. 
Pitying the propless climber of mankind, 
She cast about a standard tree to find; 
And, to support his helpless woodbine state, 
Attach'd him to the generous truly great, 




It 



TO K. GRAHAM, ESQ. 



A title, and the only one I claim, 

To lay strong hold for help on l)ounteous Graham. 

Pity the tuneful muses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish stern absorbent stuff, 
That never gives — tho' humbly takes enough; 
The little fate allows, they share as soon, 
Unlike sage, proverb'd, wisdom's hard wrung boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them depend. 
Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend ! " 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son. 
Who life and wisdom at one race begun, 
Who feel by reason, and who give by rule, 
(Instinct 's a brute, and sentiment a fool !) 
Who make poor " will do " wait upon " I should " — 
We own they're prudent, but who feels they're good? 
Ye vvise ones, hence ! ye hurt the social eye ! 
God's image rudely etch'd on base alloy ! 
But come ye, who the godlike pleasure know. 
Heaven's attribute distinguish'd — to bestow! 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human race : 
Come thou who giv'st with all a courtier's grace; 
Friend of my life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hopes for future times. 
Why shrinks my soul, half-blushing, half-afraid. 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? 
I know my need, I know thy giving hand, 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command; 
But there are such who court the tuneful nine — 
Heavens ! should the branded character be mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ! 
Seek not the proofs in private life to find; 
Pity the best of words should be but wind ! 
So, to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song ascends, 
But grovelling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the clam'rous cry of starving want. 
They dun benevolence with shameless front; 
Oblige them, patronize their tinsel lays. 
They persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such deep damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again; 
The piebald jacket let me patch once more; 
On eighteen-pence a week I've liv'd before. 
Tho', thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last shift, 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift; 
That, plac'd Ijy thee upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, man and nature fairer in her sight, 
My muse may imp her wing for some sublimer flight. 



-7=\- 




88 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, OF FINTRA, ESQ. 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg; 
Dull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest) : 
Will generous Graham list to his Poet's wail? 
(It soothes poor Misery, heark'ning to her tale,) 
And hear him curse the light he first survey'd, 
And doubly curse the luckless rhyming trade? 

Thou, Nature, partial Nature, I arraign; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found. 
One shakes the forests, and one spurns the ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell, 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. — 
Thy minions, kings defend, control, devour, 
In all th' omnipotence of rule and power. — • 
P'oxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure. 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedgehog in their robes, are snug. 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts. 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and darts. 

But Oh ! thou bitter step-mother and hard. 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child — the Bard ! 
A thing unteachable in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the op'ning dun; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shun; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Araalthea's horn : 
No nerves olfact'ry. Mammon's trusty cur, 
Clad in rich Dulness' comfortable fur, 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears th' unbroken blast from ev'ry side : 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart. 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics ■ — • appall'd I venture on the name. 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes; 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to e.xpose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung. 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung; 
His \vell-won bays, than life itself more dear. 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must wear : 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd in th' unequal strife. 
The hapless Poet flounders on thro' life. 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fir'd. 
And fled each Muse that glorious once inspir'd. 






A LAMENT. 



Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age, 

Dead, even resentment, for his injur'd page, 

He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic's rage ! 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed deceas'd, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast; 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies, senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

Dulness ! portion of the truly blest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of Fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up; 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well deserre, 
They only wonder " some folks " do not starve. 
Tlie grave sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
And thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear. 
And just conclude that " fools are fortune's care." 
So heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks. 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle Muses' mad-cap train. 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck brain; 
In equanimity they never dwell, 
By turns in soaring heav'n, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee. Fate, relentless and severe. 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear ! 
Already one strong-hold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn, the truly noble, lies in dust; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
Oh ! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintra, my other stay, long bless and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down ! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path; 
Give energy to life ; and soothe his latest breath. 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of death 1 




LAMENT FOR JAMES, 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills. 

By fits the sun's departing beam 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lugar's winding 
stream : 
Beneath a craigy steep, a Bard, 

Laden with years and meikle pain, 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord. 

Whom death had all untimely taen. 



EARL OF GLENw-vIRN. 

He lean'd him to an ancient aik. 

Whose trunk was mould'ring down 
with years; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time. 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears; 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun'd his doleful sang. 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alane 





.4 LAMENT. 



" Ye scattei'd birds that faintly sing, 

The reliques of the vernal quire ! 
Ve woods that shed on a' the winds 

The honours of the aged year ! 
A few short months, and glad and gay, 

Again ye'U charm the ear and e'e; 
But nocht in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 

" I am a bending aged tree. 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast. 

And my last hold of earth is gane : 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 

" I've seen so many changefu' years. 

On earth I am a stranger grown ; 
1 wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown : 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bare alane my lade o' care. 
For silent, low, on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 

" And last (the sum of a' my griefs !) 

My noble master lies m clay; 
The flow'r amang our barons bold. 

His country's pride, his country's stay : 
In weary being now I pme. 

For a' the life of life is dead. 
And hope has left my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fled. 



" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp ! 

The voice of woe and wild despair ! 
Awake, resound thy latest lay. 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend. 

That fiUest an untimely tomb. 
Accept this tribute from the Bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest 
gloom. 

" In Poverty's low barren vale, [round; 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me 
Though oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

No ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me, like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid air. 
The friendless Bard, and rustic song, 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date? 

While villains ripen grey with time ! 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great, 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime? 
Why did I live to see that day? 

A day to me so full of woe? 
O I had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low ! 

" The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been. 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles sae sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me ! ' 



LINES SENT TO SIR JOHN WHITEFORD, OF WHITE 
FORD, BART., WrrH THE FOREGOING POEM- 



Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 

Who, save thy mmd's reproach, nought earthly fear'st, 

To thee this votive offering I impart. 

The tearful tribute of a broken heart. 

The friend thou valued'st, I, the Patron, lov'd; 

His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 

We'll mourn till we too go as he has gone. 

And tread the dreary path to that dark world unknown. 





TAM a SHANTER. 



TAM O' SHANTER. 



Of Brozvnyis and of BogiUs full in this Bttke. 
Oawin Douglas. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neel)ors, neehors meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin to tak the gate ; 
While we sit bousing at the nappy, 
An' getting fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles. 
That lie between us and our hame, 
Whare sits our sulky sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm. 

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonie lasses.) 

O Tam ! hadst thou but been sae wise, 
As ta'en thy ain wife Kate's advice ! 
She tauld thee weel thou wast a skellum, 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober ; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller. 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank «i' Kirton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy 'd that, late or soon. 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Doon; 
Or catch'd wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames ! it gars me greet, 
To think how monie counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd, sage advices, 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale : Ae market night, 
Tam had got planted unco right; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely; 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trustv, drouthy cronv: 





TAM O' SHANTER. 




Tarn lo'ed him like a vera blither; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither. 
The night drave on wi' sangs and clatter; 
And ay the ale was growing lictter : 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious : 
The souter tauld his queerest stories; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus : 
The storm without might rair and rustle, 
Tam did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy. 
E'en drown'd himsel amang the nappy : 
As liees flee liame wi' l.ides o' treasure. 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure; 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flow'r, its bloom is shed; 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A m(m-ient white — then melts for ever; 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flit ere you can point their place; 
Or like the rainbow's lovely form 
Evanishing auiid the storm. — 
Nae man can tether time or tide; — 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride; 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane. 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in; 
And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 
The rattling show'rs rose on the blast; 
The speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd: 
That night, a child might understand. 
The Deil had business on his hand. 

Weel mounted on his grey mare, Meg, 
A better never lifted leg, 
Tam skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain, and fire; 
Whiles holding fast his gude blue bonnet; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld .Scots sonnet; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares. 
Lest bogles catch him unawares; 
Kirk-Alloway was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houlets nightly cry. — 

By this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw, the chapman smoor'd; 
And past the birks and meikle stane, 
Whare drunken Charlie brak's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters fand the murder'd bairn; 





TAM a SHANTER. 



And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mungo's mither hang'd hersel. — 
Before him Doon pours all his floods; 
The doubling storm roars thro' the woods; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole; 
Near and more near the thunders roll : 
When, glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Allovvay seem'd in a bleeze; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing; 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing. — 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn ! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usquebae, we'll face the devil ! — 
The swats sae ream'd in Tammie's noddle, 
Fair play, he car'd na deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventur'd forward on the light ; 
And, vow ! Tarn saw an unco sight ! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance; 
Nae cotillion brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east. 
There sat auld Nick, in shape o' beast; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge : 
He screw'd the pipes and gart them skirl. 
Till roof and rafters a' did dirl. — 
Coffins stood round like open presses. 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; 
And by some devilish cantraip slight 
Each in its cauld hand held a light, — 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims; 
Twa span-lang, wee, unchristen'd bairns; 
A thief, new-cutted frae the rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape; 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red rusted ; 
Five scymitars, wi' murder crusted; 
A garter, which a babe had strangled; 
A knife, a father's throat hail mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
The grey hairs yet stack to the heft; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu'. 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'd, and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious: 
The piper loud and louder blew; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew; 





TAAI a SHANTER. 



They reel'd, they set, they cross'd, they cleekit. 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her duddies to the wark. 
And linket at it in her sark ! 

Now Tam, O Tam ! had thae been queans, 
A' plump and strapping in their teens; 
Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen, 
Been snaw-vvhite seventeen hunder linnen ! 
Thir breeks o" mine, my only pair, 
That ance were plush, o' gude blue hair, 
I wad hae gi'en them off my hurdles, 
For ae blink o' the bonie burdies ! 

But wither'd beldams, auld and droll, 
Rigwooddie hags wad spean a foal, 
Lowping and flinging on a crummock, ■ 
I wonder didna turn thy stomach. 

But Tam kend \\hat was what fu' brawlie, 
There was ae winsome wench and walie, 
That night enlisted in the core, 
(Lang after kend on Carrick shore; 
For mony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonie boat. 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country-side in fear,) 
Her cutty sark, o' Paisley harn, 
That %\hile a lassie she had worn, 
In longitude tho' sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie. — 
Ah! little kend thy reverend grannie, 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots ('twas a' her riches), 
Wad ever grac'd a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour; 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r; 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was, and Strang,) 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd. 
And thought his very een enrich'd ; 
Even Satan glowr'd, and rtdg'd fu' fain. 
And hotch'd and blew wi' might and main : 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither, 
And roars out, " Weel done, Cutty-sark ! " 
And in an instant all was dark : 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke, 
When plundering herds assail their byke; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop I she starts before their nose; 
As eager runs the market-crowd. 
When, "Catch the thief! " resounds aloud; 






Tam o' Shantek." — Page 95. 




ON CAPTAIN GROSES PEREGRINATIONS. 



So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 

Wi' monie an eldritch skreech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam ! ah. Tarn ! thou'll get thy fairin ! 
In hell they'll roast thee like a herrin ! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedy utmost, Meg, 
And win the key-stane of the brig: 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream they darena cross. 
But ere the key-stane she could make. 
The fient a tail she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest. 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest. 
And flew at Tam wi' furious ettle; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought off her master hale, 
But left behind her ain gray tail : 
The carlin claught her by the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now, wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son, take heed; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cutty-sarks run in your mind, 
Think, ye may buy the joys o'er dear. 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GROSE'S PEREGRINATIONS 
THRO' SCOTLAND, 

COLLECTING THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 



Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither 

Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnny Groats ; — 
If there's a hole in a' your coats, 
I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you taking notes. 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 



If in your bounds ye chance to light 

Upon a fine, fat, fodgel wight, 

O' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he, mark weel — 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 




By some auld, houlet-haunted biggin. 

Or kirk deserted by its riggin, 

It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldritch part, 
Wi' deils, they say, Lord save's! 
colleaguin 

At some black art. — 

Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chamer. 
Ye gipsy-gang that deal in glamor. 
And you deep read in hell's black 
grammar. 

Warlocks and witches, 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer, 
Ye midnight bitches. 



J 




ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE. 



It's tauld he was a sodger bred, 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled; 
But now he's quat the spurtle-blade, 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And taen the — Antiquarian trade, 

I think they call it. 

He has a fouth o' auld nick-nackets : 
Rusty airn caps and jinglin jackets, 
Wad haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont gude; 
Andparritch-pats, and auldsaut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 

Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder; 
Auld Tubalcain's fire-shool and fender; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor, 

Weel shod wi' brass. 



Forbye, he'll shape you aff, fu' gleg 
The cut of Adam's philibeg; 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail guUie. — 

But wad ye see him in his glee, 
For meikle glee and fun has he. 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Gude fellows wi' him ; 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee. 

And then ye'll see him ! 

Now, by the Powr's o' verse and prose ! 
Thou art a dainty chield, O Grose ! — 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose, 

They sair misca' thee; 
I'd take the rascal by the nose, 

Wad say, Shame fa' thee ! 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME, 



WHICH A FELLOW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 



YApril, 



Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art. 
And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye; 
May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart ! 

Go, live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 

The bitter little that of life remains; 

No more the thickening brakes and verdant plains 
To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 



Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted rest. 
No more of rest, but now thy dying bed ! 
The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head. 

The cold earth with thy bloody bosom prest. 

Oft as by winding Nith, I, musing, wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn, 

And curse the luffian's aim, and mourn thy hapless fate. 









/rrlTl^i 1. 


^-^]^lv^ 






ir 7 '(9 y]//5^- CRUIKSHANK. 97 11 




ADDRESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, J 






ON CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDNAM, ROXBURGH-SHIRE, WITH BAYS. 






While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 


And sees, with self-approving mind, 






Unfolds her tender mantle green, 


Each creature on his bounty fed; 






Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 








Or tunes Eolian strains between; 


While maniac Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 

Rousing the turbid torrent's roar, 
Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows; 






While Summer with a matron grace 
Retreats to Dryburgh's cooling shade. 






Vet oft, delighted, stops to trace 
The progress of the spiky blade; 


So long, sweet Poet of the year. 

Shall bloom that wreath thou well 
hast won; 






While Autumn, benefactor kind, 


While Scotia, with exulting tear, 






By Tweed erects his aged head. 


Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 






TO MISS CRUIKSHANK, 






A VERY YOUNG LADY, 






WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF OF A BOC 


K, PRESENTED TO HER BY THE AUTHOR. 






Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay, 


May'st thou long, sweet crimson 






Blooming in thy early May, 


gem. 






Never may'st thou, lovely Flow'r, 


Richly deck thy native stem; 






Chilly shrink in sleety show'r ! 


Till some evening, sober, calm. 






Never Boreas' hoary path, 


Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 






Never Eurus' pois'nous breath, 


While all around the woodland rings, 






Never baleful stellar lights. 


And every bird thy requiem sings ; 






Taint thee with untimely blights ! 


Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 






Never, never reptile thief 


Shed thy dying honours round. 






Riot on thy virgin leaf I 


And resign to parent earth 






Nor even Sol too fiercely view 


The loveliest form she e'er gave birth 






Thy bosom blushing still with dew ! 








ON READING, IN 


A NEWSPAPER, 






THE DEATH OF JC 


)HN M'LEOD, ESQ., 






BROTHER TO A YOUNG LADY, A PAR 


nCULAR FRIEND OF THE AUTHOR's. 






Sad thy tale, thou idle page. 


Sweetly deckt with pearly dew 






And rueful thy alarms : 


The morning rose may blow; 






Death tears the brother of her love 


But cold successive noontide blasts 






From Isabella's arms. 


May lay its beauties low. 






.... 


"■■ 






fi^., 


.^A 




^3^ .- 


1 .LJ^ 


" 1 




PETITION OF BRUAR WATER. 



Fair on Isabella's morn 

The sun propitious smil'd; 
But, long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 

Fate oft tears the bosom chords 
That Nature tinest strung : 

So Isabella's heart was form'd, 
And so that heart was wrung. 



Dread Omnipotence, alone. 
Can heal the wound He gave; 

Can point the brimful grief-worn 
To scenes beyond the grave. 

Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 
And fear no withering lilast; 

There Isabella's spotless worth 
Shall happy be at last. 



THE HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATER TO 
THE NOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 



My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble Slave complain. 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams. 

In flaming summer-pride. 
Dry-withering, waste my foamy streams. 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly-jumping glowrin trouts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts, 

They near the margin stray; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up so shallow. 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat wi' spite and teen, 

As Poet Burns came by, 
That to a Bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry : 
^ panegyric rhyme, I ween. 

Even as I was he shor'd me; 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy rocks, 

In twisting strength I rin; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild-roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well 

As Nature gave them me, 
I am, altho' I say't mysel. 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 



Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'ring trees. 

And bonie spreading bushes. 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll \\-ander on my banks. 
And listen monie a grateful bird. 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock, warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire; 
The gowdspink. Music's gayest child. 

Shall sweetly join the choir : 
The blackbird strong, the lintwhite clear, 

The mavis mild and mellow; 
The robin pensive Autumn cheer. 

In all her locks of yellow : 

This, too, a covert shall ensure. 

To shield them from the st(jrm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure. 

Low in her grassy form : 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat 

To weave his crown of flow'rs; 
Or find a sheltering safe retreat, 

Fi'om prone-descending show'rs. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth. 

Shall meet the loving pair. 
Despising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty, idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charm 

The hour of heav'n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms. 

To screen the dear embrace. 



^€3S 





Here foaming; down the slielvy rocks 
In twisting strength 1 rin." 



Paye 98. 




THE KIRK OF SCOTLAND'S ALARM. 



Her'^ haply too, at vernal dawn, 

Some iHusing bard may stray, 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, gray; 
Or, by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly-dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swel'mg on the breeze. 

Let lofty firs, and ashes cool. 
My lowly banks o'erspread. 

And view, deep-bending in the pool. 
Their shadows' wat'ry bed ! 




Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest 

My craggy cliffs adorn; 
And, for the little songster's nest. 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may Old Scotia's darling hope. 

Your little angel band. 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may thro' Albion's fart^iest ken. 

To social-flowing glasses 
The grace be — " Athoie's honest men. 

And Athoie's bonie lasses ! " 



THE KIRK'S ALARM. 

A satire'. 
A Ballad Tune — ''Push about the Brisk BozvlP 

Orthodox, Orthodox, M'ha believe in John Knox, 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience : 

There's a heretic blast has been blawn i' the wast, 
"That what is not sense must be nonsense." 

Dr. Mac, Dr. Mac, you should stretch on a rack, 

To strike evil-doers wi' terror; 
To join faith and sense upon onie pretence. 

Is heretic, damnable error. 

Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I declare, 

To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief. 

And orator Bob is its ruin. 

D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, tho' your heart's like a chi] 

And your life like the new driven snaw. 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have ye, 

For preaching that three's ane and twa. 

Rumble John, Rumble John, mount the steps wi' a groan, 

Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd; 
Then lug out your ladle, deal biimstane like adle. 

And roar ev'rv note of the damn'd. 



Simper James, Simper James, leave the fair Killie dames, 

There's a holier chase in your view; 
I'll lay on your head, that the pack ye'll soon lead, 

Fct- puppies lik<^ you there's but few. 





THE KIRK OF SCOTLAND'S ALARM. 




Singet Sawney, Singet Sawney, are ye herding the penny. 

Unconscious what evils await? 
Wi' a jump, yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foul thief is just at your gate. 

Daddy Auld, Daddy Auld, there's a tod in the fauld, 

A tod meikle waur than the Clerk ; 
Tho' ye can do little skaith, ye'll be in at the death, 

And gif ye canna bite, ye may bark. 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye do muster, 

The corps is no nice of recruits : 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might boast, 

If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamy Goose, Jamy Goose, ye hae made but toom roose, 

In hunting the wicked Lieutenant; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the L — d"s haly ark, 

He has cooper'd and caw'd a wrang pin in't. 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, gie the Doctor a volley, 

Wi' your " liberty's chain " and your wit ; 
O'er Pegasus' side ye ne'er laid a stride. 

Ye but smelt, man, the place where he sh-t. 

Andro Gouk, Andro Gouk, ye may slander the book, 

And the book no the waur, let me tell ye ! 
Ye are rich, and look big, but lay by hat and wig. 

And ye'll hae a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Barr Steenie, Barr Steenie, what mean ye? what mean ye? 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter. 
Ye may hae some pretence to havins and sense, 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine Side, Irvine Side, wi' your turkeycock pride, 

Of manhood but sma' is your share ; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your faes will allow. 

And your friends they dare grant you nae mair. 

Muirland Jock, Muirland Jock, when the Lord makes a rock 

To crush common sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 

To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will, Holy Will, there was wit i' your skull. 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; 
The timmer is scant when ye're ta'en for a saint, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 




ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE. 



Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your sp'ritual guns. 

Ammunition you never can need; 
Your hearts are the stuff will be powther enough. 

And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 




Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' your priest-skelping turns. 

Why desert ye your auld native shire? 
You muse is a gipsie, e'en tho' she were tipsie, 

She cou'd ca' us nae waur than we are. 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTHACHE, 



1EN THE AUTHOR WAS GRIEVOUSLY TORMENTED 



My curse upon your venom'd stang. 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; 
And thro' my lugs gies monie a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance; 
Tearing my nerves wi' bitter pang. 

Like racking engines ! 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes. 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan; 
But thee — thou hell o' a' diseases. 

Ay mocks our groan ! 

Adown my beard the slavers trickle ! 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle 

To see me loup; 
While, raving mad, I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 



O' a' the numerous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty-stools, — 

Or worthy friends rak'd i' the mools, 

Sad sight to see ! 
The tricks o' knaves, or fash o' fools, 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be priests ca' hell. 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell. 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell. 

In dreadfu' raw. 
Thou, Toothache, surely bear'st the bell 

Amang them a' ! 

O thou grim mischief-making chiel. 
That gars the notes of discord squeel, 
Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick ; — 
Gie a' the faes o' Scotland's weal 

A towmont's Toothache ' 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 



THE CHIMNEY-PIECE IN THE PARLOUR OF THE 



AT KENMORE, TAYMOUTH. 



Admiring Nature in her wildest grace. 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep, 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 
My savage journey, curious, I pursue. 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view. — 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides. 
The woods, wild scatter'd, clothe their ample sides; 





BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD. 



Th' outstretching lake, embosoir'd 'mong the hills, 
The eye with wonder and amazement fills; 
The Tay meand'ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on his verdant side; 
The lawns wood-fringed in Nature's native taste 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste; 
The arches striding o'er the new-born stream; 
The village, glittering in the noontide beam — 



Poetic ardours in my bosom swell, 

Lone wand'ring by the hermit's mossy cell : 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods; 

Th' incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods — 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 

And look through Nature with creative hre; 

Here, to the wrongs of Fate half reconcil'd, 

Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild; 

And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds. 

Find balm to sooth her bitter, rankling wounds : 

Here heart-struck Grief might heav'nward stretch her scan. 

And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



ON THE BIRTH OF A POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 



PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY DISTRESS. 



Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 
And ward o' mony a prayer, 

What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 
Sae helpless, sweet, and fair. 

November hirples o'er the lea. 

Chill, on thy lovely form; 
And gane, alas ! the shelt'ring tree. 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour. 
And wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving show'r. 
The bitter frost and snaw 



May He, the friend of woe and want. 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds. 

But late she flourish'd, rooted fast, 
Fair in the summer morn : 

Now, feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unshelter'd and forlorn. 

Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 
Unscath'd by ruffian hand! 

And from thee many a parent stem 
Arise to deck our lan4. 




SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL. 



STANDING BY 



■ALL OF FYERS, 



LOCH-NESS. 




Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 

The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods; 

Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 

Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream resounds. 

As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 

As deep recoiling surges foam below. 

Prone down the rock the wliitening sheet descends, 

And viewless Echo's ear, astonished, rends. 

Dim-seen, thro' rising mists and ceaseless show'rs. 

The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, low'rs. 

Still, thro' the gap the struggling river toils. 

And still, below, the horrid cauldron boils — 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, A BROTHER POET. 




AULD Nl 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your auld-farrant, fren'ly letter ; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter, 

Ye speak sae fair. 
For my puir, silly, rhymin clatter 

Some less maun sair. 

Hale be your heart, hale be your fiddle,; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle. 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares. 
Till bairns' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld gray hairs. 

But Davie, lad, I'm red ye're glaikit ; 
I'm tauld the Muse ye hae negleckit ; 
And gif it's sae, ye sud be licket 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as you sud ne'er be faikit. 

Be hain't wha like. 

For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Rivin' the words to gar them clink ; 
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez't 
wi' drink, 

\Vi' jads or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think 
Braw sober lessons. 



Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man. 
Commend me to the Bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymin clink. 
The devil-haet, that I sud ban, 

They ever think. 

Nae thought, nae view, nae scheme o' 

livin', 
Nae cares to gie us joy or grievin'; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in. 

An' while ought's there, 
Then hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin'. 

An' fash nair mair. 

Leeze me on rhyme ! it's aye a treasure, 
My chief, amaist my only pleasure. 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie! 
Tho' rough an' raploch be lier measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 

Haud to the Muse, my dainty Davie; 
The warl' may play you monie a shavie; 
But for the Muse, she'll never leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae puir, 
Na, even tho' limpin' wi' the spavie 
. P^rae door tae door. 



# 













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- 104 T//£ INVENTORY. 44-- 








THE INVENTORY, 








IN ANSWER TO THE USUAL MANDATE SENT 


BY A SURVEYOR OF THE TAXES, REQUIRING 






A RETURN OF THE NUMBER OF HORSES, SERVANTS, CARRIAGES, ETC., KEPT. 






Sir, as your mandate did request, 


An' ay on Sundays duly nightly. 






I send you here a faithfu' list. 


I on the questions tairge them tightly; 






0' gudes an' gear, an' a' my graith, 


Till faith, wee Davock's grown sae gleg, 






To which I'm clear to gi'e my aith. 


Tho' scarcely langer than my leg, 






Imprimis then, for carriage cattle, 


He'll screed you aff Effectual Calling, 






I have four brutes o' gallant mettle. 


As fast as onie in the dwalling. — 






As ever drew afore a pettle ; 


I've nane in female servan' station, 






My han' afore's a gude auld has-been, 


(Lord keep me ay frae a' temptation !) 






An' wight an' wilfu' a' his days been; 


I ha'e nae wife, and that my bliss is. 






My han' ahin's a weel gaun fillie, 


An' ye have laid nae tax on misses; 






That aft has borne me hame frae Killie, 


An' then if kirk folks dinna clutch me. 






An' your auld burrough monie a time, 


I ken the devils dare na touch me. 






. In days when riding was nae crime — 


Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented, 






But ance whan in my wooing pride 


Heav'n sent me ane inae than I wanted. 






I like a blockhead boost to ride, 


My sonsie smirking dear-bought Bess, 






The wilfu' creature sae I pat to, 


She stares the daddy in her face, 






(Lord, pardon a' my sins an' that too !) 


Enough of ought ye like but grace. 






I play'd my fillie sic a shavie, 


But her, my bonie sweet wee lady. 






She's a' bedevil'd wi' the spavie. 


I've paid enough for her already. 






My furr-ahin's a wordy beast. 


An' gin ye tax her or her mither. 






As e'er in tug or tow was trac'd, — 


B' the Lord, ye'se get them a' thegither. 






The fourth's, a Highland Donald hastie. 


And now, remember, Mr. Aiken, 






A damn'd red-wud Kilburnie blastie. 


Nae kind of license out I'm takin'; 






Foreby a Cowte, o' Cowte's the wale. 


Frae this time forth, I do declare, 






As ever ran afore a tail; 


I'se ne'er ride horse nor hizzie mair; 






If he be spar'd to be a beast, 


Thro' dirt and dub for life I'll paidle, 






He'll draw me fifteen pun at least. — 


Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle; 






Wheel carriages I ha'e but few. 


My travel a' on foot I'll shank it, 






Three carts, an' twa are feckly new; 


I've sturdy bearers, Gude be thankit ! — 






Ae auld wheelbarrow, mair for token. 


The Kirk an' you may tak' you that. 






Ae leg, an' baith the trams, are broken; 


It puts but little in your pat; 






I made a poker o' the spin'le, 


Sae dinna put me in your buke. 






An' my auld mother brunt the trin'le. 


Nor for my ten white shillings hike. 






For men, I've three mischievous boys, 


This list wi' my ain han' I wrote it, 






Run de'ils for rantin' an' for noise ; 


Day an' date as under notit : 






A gaudsman ane, a thrasher t'other, 


Then know all ye whom it concerns. 






Wee Davock bauds the nowte in fother. 


Subscripsi huic. 






I rule them as I ought discreetly. 








An' often labour them completely. 


Robert Burns. 






^ 


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February 22, lySb. 








^ 


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THE WHISTLE. 105 



THE WHISTLE. 

A BALLAD. 

I SING of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 

I sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 

Was brought to the court of our good Scottish king, 

And long with this Whistle all Scotland shall ring. 

Old Loda, still rueing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall — 
" This Whistle's your challenge, in Scotland get o'er, 
And drink them to hell. Sir, or ne'er see me more ! " 

Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell ; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still, 
And blew on the Whistle their requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the lord of the Cairn and the Scaur, 
Unmatch'd at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank hir, poor god-ship as deep as the sea, 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has gain'd. 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of his blood. 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of flaw; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit, worth, and law; 
And trusty Glenriddel, so skill'd in old coins; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep-read in old wines. 

Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as oil, 
Desiring Glenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan. 
And once more, in claret, try which was the man. 

" By the gods of the ancients ! " Glenriddel replies, 
" Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." 

Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech would pretend. 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe — or his friend, 
Said, toss down the Whistle, the prize of the field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die ere he'd yield. 





io6 



THE WHISTLE. 



To the board of Glenriddel our heroes repair, 

So noted for drowning of sorrow and care; 

But for wine and for welcome not more known to fame, 

Than the sense, wit, and taste of a sweet lovely dame. 




A bard was selected to witness the fray, 
And tell future ages the feats of the day; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen. 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply. 

And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy; 

In the bands of old friendship and kindred so set. 

And the bands grew the tighter the more they were wet. 

Gay Pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness'd so joyous a core, 
And vow'd that to leave them he was quite forlorn. 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles a-piece had well wore out the night. 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors did. 

Then worthy Glenriddel, so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare ungodly would wage; 
A high-ruling elder to wallow in wine ! 
He left the foul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; 
But who can with Fate and quart bumpers contend? 
Though Fate said, a hero should perish in light; 
So up rose bright Phcebus — and down fell the knight. 

Next up rose our bard, like a prophet in drink : — 
" Craigdarroch, thou'lt soar when creation shall sink ! 
But if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come — one bottle more — and have at the sublime ! 

"Thy line, that have struggled for freedom with Bruce, 

Shall heroes and patriots ever produce : 

So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; 

The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of day ! " 



# 




TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 




SKETCH 

INSCRIBED TO THE RIGHT HON. C. J. FOX. 

How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and unite; 

How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their white; 

How Genius, th' illustrious father of fiction, 

Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 

I sing; If these mortals, the Critics, should bustle, 

I care not, not I — let the Critics go whistle ! 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honor my story. 

Thou, first of our orators, first of our wits; 

Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just lucky hits; 

With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 

No man, with the half of 'em, e'er could go wrong; 

With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 

No man with the half of 'em e'er could go right; 

A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, 

For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 

Good Lord, what is man ! for as simple he looks. 

Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks. 

With his depths and his shallows, his good and his evil. 

All in all, he's a problem nmst puzzle the devil. 

On his one ruling Passion Sir Pope hugely labours, 

That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats up its neighbours ; 

Mankind are his show-box — a friend, would you know him? 

Pull the string, Ruling Passion, the picture will show him. 

What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 

One trifling particular. Truth, should have miss'd him! 

For, spite of his fine theoretic positions. 

Mankind is a science defies definitions. 



Some sort all our qualities each to his tribe. 

And think Human-nature they truly describe; 

Have you found this, or t'other? there's more in the wind, 

As by one drunken fellow his comrades you'll find. 

But such is the flaw, or the depth of the plan 

In the make of the wonderful creature call'd Man, 

No two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 

Nor even two different shades of the same. 

Though like as was ever twin-brother to brother 

Possessing the one shall imply you've the other. 

But truce with abstraction, and truce with a muse, 
Whose rhymes you'll perhaps. Sir, ne'er deign to peruse : 
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and your quarrels, 
Contending with Billy for proud-nodding laurels ! 




[o8 



TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 



My much-honour'd Patron, believe your poor Poet, 
Your courage much more than your prudence you show it 
In vain with Squire Billy for laurels you struggle, 
He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will smuggle; 
Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em. 
He'd up the back-stairs, and by G — he would steal 'em. 
Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can achieve 'em, 
It is not, outdo him — the task is, out-thieve him. 




TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 



ELUSLAND, 2 1 ST OCT., 



Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ye haie, and weel, and cantie? 
I kenn'd it still your wee bit jauntie 

Wad bring ye to : 
Lord send you ay as weel's 1 want ye. 

And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south ! 
And never drink be near his drouth ! 
He tald niysel by word o' mouth, 

He'd tak my letter; 
I lippen'd to the chiel in trouth. 

And bade nae better. 



But aiblins honest Master Heron 
Had at the time some dainty fair one, 
To ware his theologic care on. 

And holy study; 
And tir'd o' sauls to waste his lear on. 

E'en tried the body. 



But what d'ye think, my trusty fier, 
I'm turn'd a gauger — Peace be here ! 
Parnassian queens, I fear, I fear 

Ye'll now disdain me ! 
And then my fifty pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket, gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha by Castalia's wimplin' streamies, 
Lowp, sing, and lave your pretty lim- 
bics. 

Ye ken, ye ken, 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 



I hae a wife and twa wee laddies. 
They maun hae brose and brats o' 

duddies; 
Ye ken yoursels my heart right proud 
is — 

I need na vaunt. 
But I'll sned besoms — thraw saugh 
woodies, 

Before they want. 

Lord help me thro' this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air ! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than monie ithers; 
But why should ae man better fare, 

And a' men brithers? 

Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thou stalk o' carl-hemp in man ! 
And let us mind, faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair; 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme, 

(I'm scant o' verse, and scant o' time,) 

To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
Ihat's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 

My compliments to sister Beckie; 
And eke the same to honest Lucky, 
I wat she is a daintie chuckle. 

As e'er tread clay ! 
And gratefully, my guid auld cockie, 

I'm yours for ay. 

Robert Burns. 





O.V THE LATE MISS BURNET. 




PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES, ON NEW YEAR's DAY EVENING. [179O.J 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 

That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity; 

Tho', by-the-by, abroad why will you roam? 

Good sense and taste are natives here at home : 

But not for panegyric I appear, 

I come to wish you all a good new-year ! 

Old Father Time deputes me here before ye, 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story : 

The sage grave ancient cough'd, and bade me say, 

" You're one year older this important day." 

If wiser too — he hinted some suggestion. 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the question; 

And with a would-be roguish leer and wink. 

He bade me on you press this one word — " Think ! " 

Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and spirit. 
Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 
To you the dotard has a deal to say. 
In his sly, dry, sententious, proverb way ! 
He bids you mind, amid your thoughtless rattle, 
That the first blow is ever half the battle; 
That tho' some by the skirt may try to snatch him, 
Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him; 
That whether doing, suffering, or forbearing. 
You may do miracles by persevering. 

Last, tho' not least in love, ye youthful fair. 
Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care ! 
To you old Bald-pate smooths his wrinkled brow. 
And humbly begs you'll mind the important — Now! 
To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 
And offers bliss to give and to receive. 

For our sincere, tho' haply weak endeavours. 
With grateful pride we own your many favours; 
And howsoe'er our tongues may ill reveal it. 
Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



ELEGY ON THE LATE MISS BURNET, 

OF MONBODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted m so rich a prize 
As Burnet, lovely from her native skies; 
Nor envious death so triumph'd in a blow. 
As that which laid th' accomplish'd Burnet low. 




TO A GENTLEMAN. 



Thy form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set ! 

In thee, high Heaven above was truest shown. 

And by his noblest work the Godhead best is known. 




In vain ye flaunt in summer's pride, ye groves; 

Thou crystal streamlet with thy flowery shore, 
Ye woodland choir that chant your idle loves. 

Ye cease to charm — Eliza is no more ! 

Ye heathy wastes, immix'd with reedy fens; 

Ye mossy streams, with sedge and rushes stor'd; 
Ye rugged cliffs o'erhanging dreary glens, 

To you I fly, ye with my soul accord. 

Princes, whose cumbrous pride was all their worth. 
Shall venal lays their pompous exit hail? 

And thou, sweet excellence ! forsake our earth. 
And not a Muse in honest grief bewail ? 

We saw thee shine in youth and beauty's pride, 
And virtue's light, that beams beyond the spheres : 

But like the sun eclips'd at morning tide. 
Thou left'st us darkling in a world of tears. 

The parent's heart that nestled fond in thee. 
That heart how sunk, a prey to grief and care; 

So deckt the woodbine sweet yon aged tree, 
So from it ravish'd, leaves it bleak and bare. 



THE FOLLOWING POEM WAS WRITTEN 



'HO HAD SENT HIM A NEWSPAPEK, AND OFFERED TO 
CONTINUE IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 



Kind Sir, I've read your paper through. 
And, faith, to me, 'twas really new ! 
How guess'd ye, Sir, what maist 1 

wanted? 
This monie a day I've grain'd and 

gaunted, 
To ken what French mischief was 

brewin' ; 
Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin'; 
That vile doup-skelper, Emperor Joseph, 
If Venus yet had got his nose off; 
Or how the coUieshangie works 
Atween the Russians and the Turks; 



Or if the Swede, before he halt. 
Would play anither Charles the Twalt : 
If Denmark, any body spak o't; 
Or Poland, wha had now the tack o't ; 
How cut-throat Prussian blades were 

hingin; 
How libbet Italy was singin ; 
If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 
Were sayin or takin aught amiss : 
Or how our merry lads at hame. 
In Britain's court, kept up the game : 
How royal George, the Lord leuk o'er 

him ! 




THE RIGHTS OP WOMAN. 



Was managing St. Stephen's quorum; 
If sleekit Chatham Will was livin, 
Or glaikit Charlie got his nieve in; 
How daddie Burke the plea was cookin, 
If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin; 
How cesses, stents, and fees were rax'd. 
Or if bare a-s yet were taxd'; 
The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 
Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera- 
girls; 
If that daft Buckie, Geordie Wales, 
Was threshin still at hizzies' tails; 
Or if he was grown oughtlins douser. 
And no a perfect kintra cooser. — 
A' this and mair 1 never heard of; 



And, but for yoUj, I might despair'd of. 
So gratefu', back your news I send you. 
And pray a' guid things may attenc 

you! 
Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1790. 




to the Gentleman to whom 
e Poem was addressed. 



Remoiistranc 
the foregoi 

Dear Peter, dear Peter, 
We poor sons of metre 

Are often negleckit, ye ken; 
For instance, your sheet, man, 
(Though glad I'm to see't, man,) 

I get it no ae day in ten. — R. B. 



LINES ON AN INTERVIEW WITH LORD DAER. 



Thi-S wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third, 
A ne'er to be forgotten day, 
Sae far I sprachled up the brae, 

I dinner'd wi' a Lord. 

I've been at druken writers' feasts. 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken; 
I've even join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty Squireships of the quo- 
rum 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord — stand out my shin; 
A Lord — a Peer — an Earl's son. 

Up higher yet, my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord — lang Scotch ells twa. 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a'. 

As I look o'er my sonnet. 

But, O for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r. 

And how he star'd and stam- 
mer'd. 



When goavan, as if led wi' branks. 
An' stumpin on his ploughman shanks, 
He in the parlor hammer'd. 

I sidling shelter'd in a nook. 
An' at his Lordship steal't a look, 

Like some portentous omen: 
Except good sense and social glee, 
An' (what surprised me) modesty, 

I marked nought uncommon. 

I watch'd the symptoms o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arrogant assuming ; 
The fient a pride, nae pride had he. 
Nor sauce, nor state that T could see, 

Mair than an honest plough- 
man. 

Then from his lordship I shall learn. 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another; 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 



THE RIGHTS OF WOMAN. 

PROLOGUE SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT. [nOV. 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mightv things. 
The fate of Empires and the fall of Kings; 
While quacks of State must each produce his plan, 
And even children lisp The Rights of Man; 




MISS FONTENELLE. 



Amid the mighty fuss just let me mention, 
The Rights of Woman merit some attention. 

First, in the Sexes' intermix'd connexion. 
One sacred Right of Woman is, Protection. — 
The tender flower that hfts its head, elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of Fate, 
Sunk on the earth, defac'd its lovely form. 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second Right — but needless here is caution. 
To keep that Right inviolate's the fashion. 
Each man of sense has it so full before him. 
He'd die before he'd wrong it — 'tis Decorum. 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude men had naughty ways; 
Would swagger, swear, get drunk, kick up a riot. 
Nay, even thus invade a Lady's quiet ! — • 
Now, thank our stars! those Gothic times are fled; 
Now, well-bred men — and you are all well-bred! 
Most justly think (and we are much the gainers) 
Such conduct neither spirit, wit, nor manners. 

For Right the third, our last, our best, our dearest, 
That Right to fluttering female hearts the nearest. 
Which even the Rights of Kings in low prostration 
Most humbly own — 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and move; 
There taste that life of life — immortal love. — 
Sighs, tears, smiles, glances, fits, flirtations, airs, 
'Gainst such an host what flinty savage dares — 
When awful Beauty joins with all her charms. 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? 

Then truce with kings, and truce with constitutions. 
With bloody armaments and revolutions ! 
Let Majesty your first attention summon, 
Ah ! ?a ira'l The Majesty of Woman ! 



ADDRESS, SPOKEN BY MISS FONTENELLE, 

ON HER BENEFIT-NIGHT, DECEMBER 4, I795, 
AT THE THEATRE, DUMFRIES. 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 

And not less anxious, sure, this night, than ever, 

A Prologue, Epilogue, or some such matter, 

'Twould vamp my bill, said I, if nothing better; 

So sought a Poet, roosted near the skies, 

Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; 

Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; 

And last, my Prologue -business slily hinted. 

" Ma'am, let me tell you," quoth my man of rhymes, 

" I know your bent — these are no laughing times : 




fe 




VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY. 



113 



Can vou — but, Miss, I own I have my fears — 

Dissolve in pause — and sentimental tears? 

With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded sentence, 

Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repentance ; 

Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 

"Waving on high the desolating brand. 

Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty land? " 
I could no more — askance the creature eyeing, 

D'ye think, said I, this face was made for crying? 

I'll laugh, that's poz — nay, more, the world shall know it; 

And so, your servant ! gloomy Master Poet ! 
Firm as my creed. Sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 

That Misery's another word for Grief; 

I also think — so may I be a bride ! 

That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd. 
Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh, 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye; 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive — 

To make three guineas do the work of five : 
Laugh in Misfortune's face — the beldam witch! 
Say, you'll be merry, tho' you can't be rich. 

Thou other man of care, the wretch in love, 
"Who long with jiltish arts and airs hast strove; 
"Who, as the boughs all temptingly project, 
Measur'st in desperate thought — a rope — thy neck — 
Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap : 
"Wouldst thou be cur'd, thou silly, moping elf? 
Laugh at her follies — laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise those frowns now so terrific. 
And love a kinder — that's your grand specific. 

To sum up all, be merry, I advise; 
And as we're merry, may we still be wise. 

VERSES TO A YOUNG LADY, 

WITH A PRESENT OF SONGS. 

Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift; tho' humble he who gives. 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 

So may no ruffian-feeling in thy breast 
Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among ! 

But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest. 
Or Love, ecstatic, wake his seraph song! 

Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears. 

As modest Want the tale of woe reveals; 

"While conscious Virtue all the strain endears. 
And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals ! 













/< 


^' 1 ^ .' -.h^fTlTx 






^ 


\ J C— 1 D 








- 


- 114 POEMS. I[ 








POEM ON PASTORAL POETRY. 






'^ 


Hail, Poesie ! thou Nymph reserv'd ! 


And rural grace; 1 






In chase o' thee, what crowds hae swerv'd 


And wi' the far-fam'd Grecian share 






Vrae common sense, or sunk enerv'd 


A rival place? 






'Mang heaps o' clavers; 








And och ! o'er aft thy joes hae starv'd, 


Yes! there is ane; a Scottish callan — 






'Mid a' thy favours ! 


There's ane; come forrit, honest Allan! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan. 






Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 


A chiel sae clever; 






While loud the trump's heroic clang. 


The teeth 0' Time may gnaw Tamtallan, 






And sock or buskin skelp alang 


But thou's for ever ! 






To death or marriage; 








Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 


Thou paints auld Nature to the nines, 






But wi' miscarriage ? 


In thy sweet Caledonian lines; 

Nae gowden stream thro'myrtles twines, 






In Homer's craft Jock Milton thrives; 


Where Philomel, 






Eschylus' pen Will Shakespeare drives; 


While nightly breezes sweep the vines, 






Wee Pope, the knurlin, 'till him rives 


Her griefs will tell ! 






Horatian fame; 








In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 


In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 






Even Sappho's flame. 


Where bonie lasses bleach their claes; 
Or trots by hazelly shaws and braes. 






But thee, Theocritus, wha matches? 


Wi' hawthorns gray, 






They're no herdsballats,Maro'scatches; 


Where blackbirds join the shepherd's 






Squire Pope but busks his skinklin 


lays 






patches 


At close 0' day. 






0' heathen tatters : 








I pass by hunders, nameless wretches, 


Thy rural loves are nature's sel' ; 






That ape their betters. 


Nae bombast spates 0' nonsense swell; 
Nae snap conceits; but that sweet spell 






In this braw age o' wit and lear, 


O' witchin' love ; 






Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mair 


That charm that can the strongest quell, 






Blavv sweetly in its native air 


The sternest move. 






WRITTEN ON THE BLA] 


^K LEAF OF THE LAST 






EDITION OF 


HIS POEMS, 






PRESENTED TO THE LADY W 


WM HE HAD OFTEN CELEBRATED 






UNDEK THE NA 


VIE OF CHLORIS. 






Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair 


(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 






friend, 


To join the friendly few. 






Nor thou the gift refuse, 








^ 


■. Nor with unwilling ear attend 


r, -. 








The morahzing Muse. 


Since, thy gay morn of life o'ercast. 
Chill came the tempest's lower, 








Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 


(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 








Must bid the world adieu, 


Did nip a fairer flower.) 






" 


" 


-■ r 






r 


K. , 


,.4 




^ 


■^ VIM , 


. « ^1^ v7 


^LJ,rA J 


■ . \-^\lJ^ 











TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER. 



liS 



Since life's gay scenes must charm no 
more, 

Still much is left behind; 
Still nobler wealth hast thou in store — 

The comforts of the mind ! 

Thine is the self-approving glow, 
On conscious honour's part; 



And, dearest gift of heaven below, 
Thine friendship's truest heart. 



The joys refin'd of sense and taste, 
With every muse to rove : 

And doubly were the poet blest, 
These joys could he improve. 




POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BARd's PICTURE. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected, 
A name, which to love, was the mark of a true heart, 

But now 'tis despis'd and neglected. 

Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my eye, 

Let no one misdeem me disloyal; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a sigh. 

Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son, 

That name should he scoffingly slight it. 

Still in prayers for King George I most heartily join, 

The Queen, and the rest of the gentry, 
Be they \\-ise, be they foolish, is nothing of mine; 

Their title's avow'd by my country. 

But why of this epocha make such a fuss. 

That gave us the Hanover stem? 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for them. 

But, loyalty, truce ! we're on dangerous ground, 

Who knows how the fashions may alter? 
The doctrine, to-day, that is loyalty sound, 

To-morrow may bring us a halter. 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care; 
But accept it, good .Sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 

Now life's chilly evening dim shades in your eye, 

And ushers the long dreary night; 
But you, like the star that athwart gilds the sky. 

Your course to the latest is bright. 





^ 



^ 



ii6 



OiV MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE. 



SKETCH. — NEW-YEAR DAY. [1790.] 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 



This day Time winds th' exhausted 

chain, 
To run the twelvemonth's length again : 
I see the old, bald-pated fellow, 
With ardent eyes, complexion sallow. 
Adjust the unimpair'd machine 
To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 
In vain assail him with their prayer, 
Deaf, as my friend, he sees them press. 
Nor makes the hour one moment less. 
Will you (the Major's wi*h the hounds, 
The happy tenants share his rounds; 
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day. 
And blooming Keith's engaged with 

Gray)_ 
Fromhousewife cares a minute borrow — 
— That grandchild's cap will do to- 
morrow — 
And join with me a moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 

First, what did yesternight deliver? 
" Another year has gone for ever." 
And what is this day's strong suggestion ? 
"The passing moment's all we rest on ! " 
Rest on — for what? what do we here? 
Or why regard the passing year ? 



Will Time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 
Add to our date one minute more? 
A few days may, a few years must. 
Repose us in the silent dust; 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss? 
Yes — all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of Nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies; 
That on this frail, uncertain state 
Hang matters of eternal weight; 
That future-life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone; 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misery's woful night. — 

Since then, my honor'd, first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends; 
Let us th' important Now employ. 
And live as those that never die. 

Tho' you, with days and honors 
crown'd. 
Witness that filial circle round, 
(A sight— life's sorrows to repulse; 
A sight — pale Envy to convulse;) 
Others may claim your chief regard; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, ON MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 



AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF N.\TURAL 
AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

To Crochallan came. 
The old cock'd hat, the grey surtout, the same; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might, 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving night; 
His uncomb'd grizzly locks wild staring, thatch'd 
A head for thought profound and clear, unmatch'd 
Yet tho' his caustic wit was biting, rude. 
His heart was warm, benevolent, and good. 





MO NOD V ON A LAD Y. 117 

INSCRIPTION FOR AN ALTAR 

TO INDEPESDENCE, AT KERROrGHTRY, SEAT OF MR. HERON, WRITTEN IN SUMMER, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind, 

With soul resolv'd, with soul resign'd; 

Prepar'd Power's proudest frown to brave, 

Who wilt not be, nor have a slave; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear, 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 

MONODY ON A LADY FAMED FOR HER CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fired. 

How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately glisten'd ! 

How silent that tongue which the echoes oft tir'd. 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so listen'd ! 

If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 

From friendship and dearest affection remov'd; 
How doubly severer, Maria, thy fate. 

Thou diedst unwept, as thou livedst unlov'd. 

Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you; 

So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a tear : 
But come, all ye offspring of Folly so true. 

And flowers let us cull from Maria's cold bier. 

We'll search thro' the garden for each silly flower, 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle weed; 

But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 

For none e'er approach'd her but rued the rash deed. 

We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the lay; 

Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey, 

Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from his ire. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect. 

What once was a butterfly, gay in life's beam : 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect. 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 





ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTHDAY. 



SONNET, ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RIDDEL, 
OF GLENRIDDEL. 

\_April, ly 

No more ye warblers of the wood — no more ! 

Nor pour your descant, grating on my soul; 

Thou young-eyed Spring, gay in thy verdant stole, 
More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest roar. 

How can ye charm, ye flow'rs, with all your dyes? 

Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 

How can I to the tuneful strain attend? 
That strain flows round th' untimely tomb where Riddel lies. 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe ! 
And sooth the Virtues weeping o'er his bier :• 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his " narrow house " for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joys shall others greet; 
Me, mem'ry of my loss will only meet. 



ESQ. 



IMPROMPTU, ON MRS. RIDDEL'S BIRTHDAY, 
NOVEMBER 4, 1793. 



Old Winter with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd, — 
"What have 1 done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe? 
My cheerless suns no pleasure know; 
Night's horrid car drags, dreary slow; 
My dismal months no joys are crowning, 
But spleeny English, hanging,drowning. 
Now, Jove, for once be mighty civil. 



To counterbalance all this evil; 

Give me, and I've no more to say, 

Give me Maria's natal day ! 

That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 

Spring, Summer, Autumn, cannot match 

me; 
" 'Tis done ! " says Jove; so ends ray 

story, 
And Winter once rejoic'd in glory. 



TO A YOUNG LADY, MISS JESSY LEWARS, DUMFRIES, 




WITH BOOKS WHICH THE B, 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair, 
And with them take the Poet's prayer - 
That fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name; 
With native worth, and spotless fame, 



PRESENTED HER. [jUNE 26TH, 1796.] 

And wakeful caution still aware 
Of ill — but chief, man's felon snare : 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind — 
These be thy guardian and reward; 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard. 



7t 




TO MR. SYME. 



119 



VERSES 



WRITTEN UNDER VIOLENT GRIEF. 



Accept the gift a friend sincere 

Wad on thy worth he pressin'; 
Remembrance oft may start a tear, 
But oh ! that tenderness forbear. 
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 

My morning raise sae clear and fair, 

I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene ; but grief and care 
In wildest fury hae made bare 
My peace, my hope, for ever ! 



You think I'm glad; oh, I pay weel 

For a' the joy I borrow, 
In solitude ■ — then, then I feel 
I canna to mysel' conceal 

My deeply-ranklin' sorrow. 

Farewell ! within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whiles awaken ; 
A tear may wet thy laughin' ee. 
For Scotia's son — ance gay like thee — 
Now hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 



EXTEMPORE TO MR. SYME, 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, 
AFTER HAVING BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMP.A.NY, AND THE FIRST OF COOKERY. 

ijth December, lyqs- 

No more of your guests, be they titled or not. 

And cook'ry the first in the nation; 
Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 

Is proof to all other temptation. 



TO MR. SYME, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O, HAD the malt thy strength of mind, 
Or hops the flavour of thy wit, 

'Twere drink for first of human kind, 
A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 
yeritsalein Tavern, Dumfries. 



SONNET, 



ON HEARING A THRUSH SING 



N A MORNING WAI.I 
THE BIRTH-DAV O 



IN JANUARY, WRITTEN 25TH JANUARY, 1793, 
rHE AUTHOR. 



Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless bough; 
Sing on, sweet bird, I listen to thy strain : 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign. 

At thy blithe carol clears his furrow'd brow. 




rO A GENTLEMAN. 



So in lone Poverty's dominion drear 

Sits meek Content with light unanxious heart, 
Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 

Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 

I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds the orient skies ! 

Riches denied, thy boon was purer joys. 
What wealth could never give nor take away ! 

Yet come, thou child of poverty and care; 

The mite high Heaven bestow'd, that mite with thee I'll share. 



POEM, ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, 



COLLECTOR OF EX'CISE, DUMFRI: 



I795-] 



Friend of the Poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal; 
Alake, alake, the meikle Deil 

Wi' a' his witches 
Are at it, skelpin ! jig and reel. 

In my poor pouches. 

I modestly fu' fain wad hint it. 

That one pound one, I sairly want it : 

If wi' the hizzie down ye sent it, 

It would be kind ; 
Andwhilemy heart wi' life-blood dunted, 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the auld year gang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loanin 

To thee and thine; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been 

licket. 
And by fell death was nearly nicket : 
Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket. 

And sair me sheuk; 
But by guid luck I lap a wicket. 

And turn'd a neuk. 

But by that health, I've got a share o't. 
And by that life, I'm promis'd mair o't, 
My heal and weal I'll take a care o't 

A tentier way : 
Then fareweel folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye. 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. 



The friend whom wild from wisdom's 
way 

The fumes of wine infuriate send; 
(Not moony madness more astray ; ) 

Who but deplores that hapless friend? 



^ 



Mine was th' insensate frenzied part. 
Ah why should I such scenes out- 
live? 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart ! 
'Tis thine to pity and forgive. 




TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 



POEM ON LIFE, 

ADDRESSED TO COLONEL DE PEYSTER, DUMFRIES, 1796. 



My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the Poet's weal; 
Ah ! now sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

what a canty warld were it, 

Would pain, and care, and sickness 

spare it; 
And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve : 
(And aye a rowth, roast beef and claret; 

Syne wha wad starve?) 

Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her. 
And in paste gems and fripp'ry deck her ; 
Oh ! flick'ring, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still. 
Aye wav'ring like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches, like baudrons by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' saul to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire; 
Syne, whip ! his tail ye'U ne'er cast 
saut on. 

He's off like fire. 



Ah Nick ! ah Nick ! it isna fair, 
P"irst shewing us the tempting ware. 
Bright wine and bonie lasses rare, 

To put us daft; 
Syne weave, unseen, thy spider snare 

O' hell's damn'd waft. 



Poor man, the flie, aft bizzies by, 

As aft as chance he comes thee nigh, 

Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy, 

And hellish pleasure; 
Already in thy fancy's eye. 

Thy sicker treasure. 



Soon heels-o'er-gowdie ! in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murd'ring wrestle, 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 



But lest you think I am uncivil. 

To plague you with this draunting drivel, 

Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen : 
The Lord preserve us frae the Devil ! 

Amen ! amen ! 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., OF FINTRY, 



ON RECEIVING 

I CALL no Goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a Bard that 

feigns ; 
Friend of my life ! my ardent spirit burns. 
And all the tribute of my heart returns. 
Vox boons recorded, goodness ever new. 
The gift still dearer, as the giver you. 



Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night; 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace; 
Then roll to me, along your wand'ring 

spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's years'! 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 



An honest man here lies at rest, 
As e'er God with his image blest; 
The friend of man, the friend of truth; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth : 



Few hearts like his, with virtue warm'd, 
Few hearts with knowledge so inform'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss; 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 





P'ERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK. 



VERSES WRITTEN AT SELKIRK, 



ADDRESSED TO MR. CREECH, 13TH M^ 



1787. 




AULD chuckie Reekie's sair distrest, 
Down droops her ance weel buniish't 

crest, 
Nae joy her bonie buskit nest 

Can yield ava, 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best, 

Willie's awa ! 

Willie was a witty \\ight. 

And had o' things an unco slight; 
Auld Reekie ay he keepit tight. 

An' trig an' braw : 
But now they'll busk her like a fright, 

Willie's awa ! 

The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd; 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd. 

That was a law : 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd, 

Willie's awa ! 

Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and 

fools, 
Frae colleges and boarding-schools. 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools 

In glen or shaw; 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa ! 

The brethren o' the Commerce-Chaumer 
May mourn their losswi'doofu' clamour; 
He was a dictionar and grammar 
Amang them a' ; 

1 fear they'll now mak mony a stammer, 

Willie's awa ! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 
Philosophers and Poets pour, 
And toothy critics by the score. 

In bloody raw. 
The adjutant o' a' the core, 

Willie's awa ! 



Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 

Ty tier's and Greenfield's modest grace; 

Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 

As Rome ne'er saw; 
They a' maun meet some ither place, 

Willie's awa ! 

Poor Burns e'en Scotch drink canna 

quicken. 
He cheeps like some bewilder'd chicken 
Scar'd frae its minnie and the cleckin 

By hoodie-craw; 
Grief's gien his heart an unco' kickin', 

Willie's awa ! 

Now ev'ry sour-mou'd grinnin' blellum, 
And Calvin's folk, are fit to fell him; 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw; 
He wha could brawlie ward their bellum, 

Willie's awa ! 

Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red. 

While tempest blaw ; 
But every joy and pleasure's fled, 

Willie's awa ! 

May I be Slander's common speech; 
A text for infamy to preach; 
And lastly, streekit out to bleach 

In winter snaw ; 
When I forget thee, Willie Crefxh, 

Tho' far awa ! 

May never wicked Fortune touzle him! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him ! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He cahty claw ! 
Then to the blessed. New Jerusalem 

Fleet wing awa ! 




A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 



123 



INSCRIPTION ON THE TOMBSTONE 

ERECTED BY BURWS TO THE MEMORY OF FERGUSSON. 

" Here lies Robert Fergusson, Poet, 
Born September 5th, -751 — 
Died i6th October, 1774." 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 

"No storied urn nor animated bust; " 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 

To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 

She mourns, sweet tuneful youth, thy hapless fate. 

Tho' all the powers of song thy fancy fir'd. 
Yet Luxury and Wealth lay by in State, 

And thankless starv'd what they so much admir'd. 

This humble tribute with a tear he gives, 
A brother Bard, he can no more bestow : 

But dear to fame thy Song immortal lives, 
A nobler monument than Art can show. 



A GRACE BEFORE DINNER. 



O THOU, who kindly dost provide 
For every creature's want ! 

We bless thee, God of Nature wide. 
For all thy goodness lent : 



And, if it please thee, Heavenly Guide, 

May never worse be sent; 
But whether granted, or denied, 

L.ord, bless us with content ! 

Amen ! 



A VERSE 

COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THE MASTER OF THE HOUSE, ON TAKING LEAVE 
AT A PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS, WHERE HE HAD BEEN HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er, 

A time that surely shall come; 
In Heaven itself I'll ask no more. 

Than just a Highland welcome. 



LIBERTY 



A FR A GM ENT. 



Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled? 
Immingled with the mighty dead ! 

Beneath the hallow'd ta.f where Wallace lies 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep; 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
.Nor give the coward secret breath. 





ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 



Is this the power in Freedom's war, 

That woi.t to bid the battle rage? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing, 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Brav'd usurpation's boldest daring ! 
One quench'd in darkness like the sinking star, 
And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age 

FRAGMENT OF AN ODE 

TO THE MEMORY OF TRINCE CHARLES EDWARD STUART. 

False flatterer, Hope, away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore; 

We solemnize this sorrowing natal-day 
To prove our loyal truth; we can no more; 

And owning Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive low adore. 




Ye honour'd mighty dead ! 
Who nobly perish'd in the glorious cause, 
Your king, your country, and her laws ! 

From great Dundee who smiling victory led, 
And fell a martyr in her arms 
(What breast of northern ice but warms?) 

To bold Balmerino's undying name, 
Whose soul of fire, lighted at heaven's high flarne, 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes claim. 

Nor unavenged your fate shall be. 

It only lags the fatal hour; 
Your blood shall with incessant cry 

Awake at last th' unsparing power; 
As from the cliff, with thundering course. 

The snowy ruin smokes along. 
With doubling speed and gathering force. 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the vale ! 
So vengeance ..... 

ELEGY ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT RUISSEAUX. 



Now Robin lies in his last lair. 

He'll gabble rhyme, nor sing nae mair, 

Cauld poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him : 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care, 

E'er mair come near him. 

To tell the truth, they seldom fash't him, 
Except the moment that they crush't 

him; 
Forsune as chance m fate had husht 'em. 



Tho' e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang he lasht 'em, 
And thought it sport. 



Tho' he was bred to kintra wark, 

And counted was baith wight and stark, 

Yet that was never Robin's mark 

To mak a man ; 
But tell him, he was learn'd and dark, 

Ye roos'd him than ! 





TO y. LAPRAIK. 



:^5 



ANSWER TO VERSES ADDRESSED TO THE POET 



THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE-HOUSE. [1787.] 



GUIDWIFE, 



I MIXD it weel, in early date, 

When I was beardless, young and blate, 

An' first could thresh the barn, 
Or haud a yokin at the pleugh. 
An' tho' forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn : 
When firift amang the yellow corn 

A man I reckon'd was. 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass. 
Still shearing, and clearing 

The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers, an haivers, 
Wearing the day awa : 

Ev'n then a wish, (I mind its power,) 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast; 
That I for poor auld Scotland's sake. 
Some usefu' plan, or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside. 
An' spar'd the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station. 

My envy e'er could raise; 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 

But still the elements o' sang 

In formless jumble, right an' wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain; 
Till on that har'st I said before, 
l\Iy partner in the merry core. 

She rous'd the forming strain : 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up my jingle, 

TO J. 

SEPT. 

GuiD speed an' furder to you, Johny, 
Guid health, hale ban's, and weather 

bonie 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' cany 



Her witching smile, her pauky een, 
That gart my heart-strings tingle; 
I fired, inspired. 

At ev'ry kindling keek, 

But bashing, and dashing, 

I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex, ilk guid chiel says, 
Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

An' we to share in common : 
The gust o' joy, the balm of woe. 
The saul o' life, the heav'n below. 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be mindfu' o' your niither: 
She, honest woman, may think shame 
That ye're connected with her, 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye. 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 

For you, no bred to barn or byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre. 

Thanks to you for your line : 
The marled plaid ye kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully be ware; 

'Twad please me to the nine. 
I'd be more vauntie o' my hap, 

Douce hingin' owre my curple. 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 

Farewell then, lang heal then, 

An' plenty be your fa' : 
May losses and crosses 
Ne'er at your hallan ca'. 

March, \^Z^. 



LAPRAIK. 

13TH, 1785. 

The staff o' bread. 
May ye ne'er want a stoup o' Ijran'y 
To clear your head. 










^<^r^'^ ' . 


■ ' ^1 r- 


L 


1 126 T//E TW 


^ ^1. ,P 


A HERDS. 1 


) 


May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 


Your friendship. Sir, I winna quat it. 




Nor kick your rickles aff their legs, 


An' if ye make objections at it. 






Sendin' the stuff o'er muiis an' hags 


Then han' in nieve some day we'll 




' 


^ Like drivin' wrack; 


knot it, ^ 


3 




But may the tapmast grain that wags 


An' witness take. 






Come to the sack. 


An' when wi' Usquebae we've wat it 
It winna break. 






I'm bizzie too, an' skelpin' at it, 








But bitter, daudin showers hae wat it, 


But if the beast and branks be spar'd 






Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 


Till kye be gaun without the herd, 






\Vi' muckle wark. 


An' a' the vittel in the yard. 






An' took my jocteleg an' whatt it, 


An' theekit right. 






Like onie clerk. 


I mean your ingle-side to guard 
Ae winter night. 






It's nowtwa month that I'm your debtor, 








For your braw, nameless, dateless letter. 


Then muse-inspirin' aqua-vitae 






Abusin' me for harsh ill-nature 


Shall make us baith sae blithe an' witty 






On holy men. 


Till ye forget ye're auld an' gatty. 






While Deil a hair yoursel' ye're better. 


An' be as canty 






But mair profane. 


As ye were nine years less than thretty. 
Sweet ane an' twenty ! 






But let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 








Let's sing about our nob'e sels; 


But stocks are cowpet wi' the blast. 






We'll cry nae jads frae heathen hills 


An' now the sinn keeks in the west. 






To help, or roose us. 


Then I maun rin amang the rest 






But browster wives an' whisky stills, 


An' quit my chanter; 






They are the Muses. 


Sae T subscribe mysel in haste. 

Yours, Rab the Ranter. 






THE TWA HERI 


IS. [April, 1785.] 






Blockheads with rcaso 


« wicked wits abhor. 






But Fool with Fool is ba 


rbarous civil war. 

Pope. 






A' ye pious godly flocks, 


0, Moodie, man, and wordy Russel, 






Weel feed on pastures orthodox, 


How could you raise so vile a bustle, 






WTia now will keep you frae the fox. 


Ye'll see how new-light herds wil! 






Or worrying tykes? 


whistle. 






Or wha will tent the waifs and crocks, 


And think it fine ! 






About the dyke:.? 


The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle 
Sin' I hae min'. 






The twa best herds in a' the wast. 


0, Sirs, whae'er wad hae expeckit. 




_. 


T That e'er gae gospel horn a blast, 


Your duty ye wad sae negleckit. 






These five and twenty summers past, 


Ye wha were ne'er by lairds respeckit, 






dool to tell ! 


To wear the plaid, 






Hae had a bitter black out-cast, 


But by the brutes themselves eleckit 






Atween themsel. 


To be their guide. 






rt 






^ 


^. , 


,.^ 




•/ , =— 1 ' , 


-^=Krg^ 


^^^ . 


1 




THE TWA HERDS. 



What flock \vi' Moodie's flock could 

rank, 
Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd soor Arminians tank 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear, they 
drank : 

O' sic a feast ! 

The thummart wil'-cat, brock and tod, 
Weel kend his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smell'd their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in. 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like Russel tell'd his tale, 
His voice was heard thro' muir and 

dale, 
He kend the Lord's sheep, ilka tail. 

O'er a' the height. 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 
At the first sight. 

He fine a mangy sheep could scrub. 

Or nobly fling the gospel club. 

And new-light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them owre the burning 
dub. 

Or heave them in. 

Sic twa — O ! do I live to see't. 
Sic famous twa should disagreet. 
An' names, like "villain," " hypocrite," 

Ilk ither gi'en. 
While new-light herds wi' laughin' 
spite, 

Say, " neither's liein " ! 



A' ye wha' tent the gospel fauld, 
There's Duncan deep, and Peebles 

shaul, 
But chiefly thou, apostle Auld, 
We trust in thee, 
Thai thou wilt work them, hot and 
cauld, 

Till they-agree. 




Consider, Sirs, how we're beset. 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes frae 'mang that cursed set 

I winna name, 
I hope frae heaven to see them yet 

In fiery flame. 

Dalryrnple has been iang our fae, 
M'Gill has wrought us meikle wae, 
And that curs'd rascal ca'd M'Quhae, 

And baith the Shaws, 
That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 

Auld Wodrow Iang has hatch'd mis- 
chief. 

We thought aye death wad bring relief. 

But he has gotten, to our grief, 

. Ane to succeed him, 

A chiel wha'U soundly buft' our beef; 
I meikle dread him. 

And monie a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel, 

There's Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey nick quill. 

And that ye'll fin'. 

O ! a' ye flocks, owre a' the hills. 

By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 

Come join your counsels and your skills. 

To cowe the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themsels 

To choose their herds. 

Then Orthodoxy yet may prance. 
And Learning in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur ca'd Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair. 
Be banish'd owre the seas to France; 

Let him bark there. 

Then Shaw's and D'rymple's eloquence, 
M'Gill's close nervous excellence, 
M'Quhae's pathetic manly sense. 

And guid jVI'Maith, 
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can 
glance, 

May a' pack aff. 



^ 



1.! 128 rO THE REV. JOHN APMATH. -\ 



TO THE REV. JOHN M'MATH, 

ENCLOSING A COPY OF HOLY WILLIE's PRAYER, WHICH HE HAD REQUESTED. 

Sept. 17 th, 178s ' 

While at the stook the shearers cowr 
To shun the bitter blaudin' show'r, 
Or in gulravage rinnin scour 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My Musie, tir'd \vi' monie a sonnet 

On gown, an' ban, an' douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right etrie now she's done it, 

Lest they shou'd blame her. 
An' rouse their holy thunder on it, 

And anathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy. 
That I, a simple countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle \vi' a pack so sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Lowse hell upon me. 

But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighin', cantin' grace-proud faces, 
Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces. 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, an' pride disgraces 

Waur nor their nonsense. 

There's Gaun, misca't waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than monie scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus'd him; 
An' may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they've us'd him? 

See him, the poor man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word an' deed. 
An' shall his fame an' honour bleed 

By worthless skellums. 
An' no a Muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums? 





TO THE REV. JOHN Ar MATH. 



O Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts, 
I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

An' tell aloud 
Their jugglin' hocus-pocus arts 

To cheat the crowd. 



God knows, I'm no the thing I shou'd be. 
Nor am I even the thing I could be. 
But, twenty times, I rather would be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be. 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass. 
But mean revenge, an' malice fause, 

He'll still disdain. 
An' then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 



They tak religion in their mouth; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, an' truth. 
For what? to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
An' hunt him down, o'er right an' ruth. 

To ruin straight. 



All hail, Religion ! maid divine ! 
Pardon a muse sae mean as mine, 
"Who in her rough imperiect line 

Thus daurs to name thee? 
To stigmatize false friends of thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 



Tho' blotcht an' foul wi' monie a stain. 

An' far unworthy of thy train, 

Wi' trembhng voice I tune my strain 

To join wi' those. 
Who boldly daur thy cause maintain 

In spite o' foes : 



In spite o' crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite of undermining jobs. 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth an' merils 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 



HOL V WILLIE'S PR A YER. 



O Ayr ! my dear, my native ground ! 
Within thy presbyterial bound, 
A candid lib'/al band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as Christians too, renown'd, 

An' manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd, 
Sir, in that circle you are fam'd; 
An' some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd; 

(Which gies you honour,) 
Even, Sir, by them your heart's esteem'd. 

An' winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en. 
An' if impertinent I've been. 
Impute it not, good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye. 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER, 



Thou, wha in the Heavens dost 
■ dwell, 

Wha, as it pleases best thysel'. 
Sends ane to heaven and ten to hell, 

A' for thy glory, 
And no for onie guid or ill 

They've done afore thee ! 

1 bless and praise thy matchless might, 
Whan thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight. 

For gifts an' grace, 
A burnin an' a shinin light. 

To a' this place. 

What was I, or my generation. 
That I should get sic exaltation? 
I, wha deserve sic just damnation. 

For broken laws. 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 

Thro' Adam's cause. 

When frae my niither's womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail. 

In burnin' lake. 
Where damned devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 



Yet I am here a chosen sample. 

To show thy grace is great and ample; 

I'm here a pillar in thy temple. 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, an example 

To a' thy flock. 

O Lord, thou kens what zeal I bear. 
When drinkers drink, and swearers 

swear, 
And singin there and dancing here, 

Wi' great an' sma' : 
For I am keepit by thy fear. 

Free frae them a'. 

But yet, O Lord ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash'd wi' fleshly lust. 
An' sometimes too, wi' warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

Defil'd in sin. 

O Lord ' yestreen, thou kens, wi' Meg — 

Thy pardon I sincerely beg, 

O ! may it ne'er be a livin plague 

To my dishonour. 
An' I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg 

Again upon her. 




EPITAPH ON HOL Y WILLIE. 



131 



Besides I farther maun allow, 

Wi' Lizzie's lass, three times I trow; 

But Lord, that Friday I was fou. 

When I came near her, 
Or else thou kens thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. 

May be thou lets this fleshly thorn 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 
Lest he owre high and proud should 
turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted; 
If sae, thy hand maun e'eft be borne, 

Until thou lift it. 

Lord, bless thy chosen in this place. 
For here thou hast a chosen race; 
But God confound their stubborn face. 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace. 

An' public shame. 

Lord, mind Gawn Hamilton's deserts. 
He drinks, an' swears, an' plays at 

cartes. 
Yet has sae monie takm arts, 

Wi' grit an' sma', 
Frae God's ain priest the people's 
hearts 

He steals awa'. 

An' whan we chasten'd him therefore. 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore. 
As set the warld in a roar 



O' laughin at us; 
Curse thou his basket and his store, 
Kail and potatoes. 

Lord, hear my earnest cry an' pray'r. 
Against that presbyt'ry o' Ayr; 
Thy strong right hand, Lord, make it 
bare, 

Upo' their heads; 
Lord, weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 

O Lord my God, that Glib-tongued 

Aiken, 
My very heart and soul are quakin. 
To think how we stood sweatin, shakin, 

An' p — d wi' dread, 
While he, wi' hingin lips an' snakin' 
Held up his head. 

Lord, in the day of vengeance try him; 
Lord, visit them wha did employ him. 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em. 

Nor hear their pray'r : 
But, for thy people's sake, destroy 'em. 

And dinna spare. 

But, Lord, remember me and mine 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine. 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane, 
An' a' the glory shall be thine, 

Amen, Amen. 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 



Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay 

Taks up its last abode; 
His saul has taen some other way, 

I fear the left-hand road. 

Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun. 

Poor silly body, see him ; 
Nae wonder he's as black's the grun, 

Observe wha's standing wi' him. 

Your brunstane devilship, I see. 
Has got him there before ye; 



But baud your nine-tail cat a-wee, 
Till ance you've heard my story. 

Your pity I will not implore. 

For pity ye have nane; 
Justice, alas ! has gien him o'er, 

And mercy's day is gane. 

But hear me, .Sir, deil as ye are. 
Look something to your credit; 

A coof like him wad stain your name, 
If it were kent ye did it. 




w , 



32 



TO GA VIN HAMIL TON, ESQ. 



ON SCARING SOME WATER FOWL 



IN LOCH-TURIT, A 



.:ene among the hills of OCHTERTYRE. 



Why, ye tenants of the lake, 
For me your vvat'ry haunt forsake? 
Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 
At my presence thus you fly? 
Why disturb your social joys, 
Parent, filial, kindred ties? — 
Common friend to you and me, 
Nature's gifts to all are free : 
Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 
Busy feed, or wanton lave; 
Or, beneath the sheltering rock. 
Bide the surging billow's shock. 

Conscious, blushing for our race. 
Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 
Man, your proud, usurping foe, 
Would be lord of all below ; 
Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 
Tyrant stern to all beside. 

The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 
Marking you his prey below. 



In his breast no pity dwells. 
Strong Necessity compels. 
But Man, to whom alone is giv'n 
A ray direct from pitying Heav'n, 
Glories in his heart humane — 
And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains. 
Only known to wand'ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays, 
Far from human haunts and ways; 
All on Nature you depend. 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or, if man's superior might 
Dare invade your native right. 
On the lofty ether borne, 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Oth?r lakes and other springe; 
And the foe you cannot brave. 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 




TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., MAUCHLINE, 



RECOMMENDING 



I HOLD it. Sir, my bounden duty. 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias Laird M'Oaun, 
Was here to lure the lad away 
'Bout whom ye spak the tither day. 

An' wad hae don't aff han' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As faith I muckle doubt him, 
Like scrapin' out auld Crummie's nicks, 
An' tellin' lies about them; 
As lieve then I'd have then, 

Your clerkship he should sair. 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted otherwhere. 

Altho' I say't, he's gleg enough. 

An' 'bout a house that's rude an' rough, 

The boy might learn to swear; 
But then wi' you, he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I hae na onie fear. 
Ye'U catechize him every quirk. 



Mosgaville, May 3, lySb. 

An' shore him weel wi' hell; 

An' gar him follow to the kirk 

— Ay when ye gang yoursel. 
If ye then, maun be then 

Frae hame this comin' Friday, 
Then please. Sir, to lea'e. Sir, 

The orders wi' your lady. 

My word of honour I ha'e gi'en. 
In Paisley John's, that night at e'en. 

To meet the Warld's worm: 
To try to get the twa to gree. 
An' name the airles an' the fee. 

In legal mode an' form : 
I ken he weel a snick can draw. 

When simple bodies let him; 
An' if a Devil be at a'. 

In faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you an' praise you. 

Ye ken your Laureat scorns : 
The pray'r still, you share still. 
Of grateful Minstrel, burns. 




TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. 



OF CRAIGEN-GILLAN, 



EPISTLE TO MR. M'ADAM, 

N ANSWER TO AN OBLIGING LETTER HE SENT IN 
OF MV POET.C CAKEER. 



THE COMMENCEMENT 




Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card, 

I trow it made me proud; 
" See wha taks notice o' the Bard ! " 

I lap and cry'd fu' loud. 

" Now deil-ma-care about their jaw, 
The senseless, gawky million; 

I'll cock my nose aboon them a', 
I'm roos'd by Craigen-Gillan ! " 

'Twas noble, Sir; 'twas like yoursel, 
To grant your high protection : 

tv great man's smile, ye ken fu' weel. 
Is aye a blest infection. 

The', by his banes wha in a tub 
Match'd Macedonian Sandy ! 



On my ain legs, thro' dirt and dub, 
I independent stand ay. — 

And when those legs to gude, warm kail, 
Wi' welcome canna bear me; 

A lee dyke-side, a sybow-tail, 
And barley-scone shall cheer me. 

Heaven spare you lang to kiss the breath 

O' monie flow'ry simmers ! 
And bless your bonie lasses baith, 

I'm tald they're loosome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's bird, 
The blossom of our gentry ! 

And may he wear an auld man's b»ard 
A credit to his country. 



TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, GLENRIDDEL. 



EXTEMPORE LINES ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER. 

Ellisland, Monday Evening 

Your News and Review, Sir, I've read through and through, Sir, 

With little admiring or blaming; 
The papers are barren of home-news or foreign, 

No murders or rapes worth the naming. 

Our friends the Reviewers, those chippers and hewers. 

Are judges of mortar and stone. Sir; 
But of meet, or unmeet, in a fabrick complete, 

I'll boldly pronounce they are none. Sir. 

My goose-quill too rude is to tell all your goodncs^ 

Bestow'd on your servant, the Poet; 
Would to God I had one like a beam cf the sun. 

And then all the world, Sir, should know it ' 










x^2]'' 1 ,' h^r~> 


\ 




s V-^\ /• 


- 134 TO A 


LADY. 


J 




\ L ■ VERSES J 






INTENDED TO BE WRITTEN BELOW A NOBLE EARL's PICTURE. 






Whose is that noble, dauntless brow? 


Bright as a cloudless summer sun, 






And whose that eye of fire ? 


With stately port he moves; 






And whose that generous princely mien 


His guardian seraph eyes with awe 






Even rooted foes admire? 


The noble ward he loves. 






Stranger, to justly shew that brow. 








And mark that eye of fire, 


Among the illustrious Scottish sons 






Would take His hand, whose vernal 


That chief thou may'st discern; 






tints 


Mark Scotia's fond returning eye, 






His other works admire. 


It dwells upon Glencairn. 






TO TERRAUGHTY, ON HIS BIRTHDAY. 






Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! 


Nine miles an hour. 






Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief : 


Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah. 






Inspir'd, I turn'd Plate's sibyl leaf 


In brunstane stoure — 






This natal morn, 
I see thy life is stuff 0' prief. 


But for thy friends, and they are monie, 
Baith honest men and lassies bonie, 






Scarce quite half worn. 


May couthie fortune, kind and cannie, 






This day thou metes threescore eleven, 
And I can tell that bounteous Heaven 


In social glee, 
Wi' mornings blithe and e'enings funny 
Bless them and thee ! 






(The second-sight, ye ken, is given 








To ilka Poet) 


Fareweel, auld birkie ! Lord be near ye. 






On thee a tack 0' seven times seven 


And then the Deil he daurna steer ye : 






Will yet bestow it. 


Your friends aye love, your faes aye 
fear ye; 






If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 


For me, shame fa' n:e, 






Thylengthen'd days on thisblestmorrow, 


If neist my heart I dinna wear ye 






May desolation's lang-teeth'd harrow, 


While Burns they ca'nie. 






TO A 


LADY, 






WITH A PRESENT OF A PA 


IR OF DRINKING GLASSES. 






Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 


And pledge me in the generous toast — 






And Queen of Poetesses ; 


" The whole of human kind ! " 




f^ 


p Clarinda, take this little boon. 


J. 


, 




This humble pair of glasses. 


" To those who love us ! " — second fill; 






But not to those whom we love; 






And fill them high with generous juice. 


Lest we love those who love not us ! 






As generous as you-- mind ; 


A third — "to thee and me, Love!" 




[ 


TTX 


A.' 






^3y r 


- ' Ml Wt 


. k>L_p>^ 


1 



SKETCH. 



13: 



THE VOWELS. 



'TWAS where the birch and sounding thong are ply'd. 

The noisy domicile of pedant pride; 

"Where ignorance her darlcening vapour throws, 

And cruelty directs the thickening blows; 

Upon a time, Sir Abece the great, 

In all his pedagogic powers elate, 

His awful chair of state resolves to mount, 

And call the trembling Vowels to account. 

First enter'd A, a grave, broad, solemn wight. 
But ah I deform'd, dishonest to the sight ! 
His twisted head look'd backward on his v;ay. 
And flagrant from the scourge, he grunted, ai! 

Reluctant, E stalk'd in; with piteous race 
The jostling tears ran down his honest face ! 
That name, that well-worn name, and all his own, 
Pale he surrenders at the tyrant's throne I 
The pedant stifles keen the Roman sound 
Not all his mongrel diphthongs can compound ; 
And next, the title following close behind. 
He to the nameless, ghastly wretch assign'd. 

The cobweb'd gothic dome resounded, Y ! 
In sullen vengeance, I, disdain'd reply : 
The pedant swung his felon cudgel round. 
And knock'd the groaning vowel to the ground! 

In rueful apprehension enter'd O, 
The wailing minstrel of despairing woe; 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert. 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his art; 
So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
His dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 

As trembling U stood staring all aghast. 
The pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
In helpless infants' tears he dipp'd his right, 
Baptiz'd him eii, and kick'd him from his sight. 



SKETCH. 

A LITTLE, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight. 
And still his precious self his dear delight; 
Who loves his own smart shadow in the streets 
Better than e'er the fairest she he meets : 
A man of fashion too, he made his tour, 
Learn'd vive la bagatelle, et vive I'amour ; 
So travell'd monkeys their grimace improve, 
Polish their grin, nav, sigh for ladies' love. 



7=1- 




PROLOGUE. 



Much specious lore, but little understood; 
Veneering oft outshines the solid wood : 
His solid sense — ■ by inches you must tell, 
But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; 
His meddling vanity, a busy fiend, 
Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



PROLOGUE 

FOR MR. Sutherland's benefit-night, Dumfries. [1790.] 
What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on, 
How this new play an' that new sang is comin'? 
Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? 
Does nonsense mend like whisky, when imported? 
Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame. 
Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame? 
For comedy abroad he need na toil, 
A fool and knave are plants of every soil; 
Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 
To gather matter for a serious piece; 
There's themes enow in Caledonian story. 
Would show the tragic muse in a' her glory. 
Is there no daring Bard will rise, and tell 
How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? 
Where are the Muses fled that could produce 
A drama worthy o' the name- o' Bruce; 
How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the sword 
'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord; 
And after monie a bloody, deathless doing, 
Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of ruin? 
O for a Shakespeare or an Otway scene. 
To draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen ! 
Vain all th' omnipotence of female charms 
'Gainst headlong, ruthless, mad Rebellion's arms. 
She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 
To glut the vengeance of a rival woman; 
A woman, tho' the phrase may seem uncivil. 
As able and as cruel as the devil ! 
One Douglas lives in Home's immortal page, 
But Douglases were heroes every age : 
And tho' your fathers, prodigal of life, 
A Douglas foUow'd to the martial strife, 
Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Right succeeds, 
Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
Would tak the Muses' servants by the hand; 
Not only hear, but patronize, befriend them. 
And where ye justly can commend, commend them. 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test. 
Wink hard and say, the folks hae done their best ! 




ELEGY ON THE YEAR 1788. 



'37 



Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation, 
Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle time an' lay him on his back ! 

For us and for our stage should onie spier, 
" Whase aught thae chiels maks a' this bustle here?" 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow. 
We hae the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
But like good mithers, shore before ye strike — 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets and ranks : 
God help us ! we're but poor — - ye'se get but thanks. 



ELEGY ON T 

SK' 
For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die — for that they're born : 
But oh ! prodigious to reflec' ! 
A Towmont, Sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events hae taken place ! 
Of what enjoyments thou hast reft us ! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint a head, 
And my auld teethless Bawtie's dead ! 
The tulzie's sair 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
An' our gudewife's wee birdy cocks; 
The tane is game, a bludie devil. 
But to the hen-birds unco civil; 
The.tither's something dour o' treadin, 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden. 

Ye ministers, come mount the poupit 
An' cry till ye be haerse an' roupet, 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd you weel. 
And gied you a' baith gear an' meal; 



HE YEAR 1788, 

ETCH. 

E'en monie a plack, and monie a peck; 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck. 

Ye bonie lasses, dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' ; 
171 Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gie again. 

Observe the very novvt an' sheep, 
How dowf and daviely they creep; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel does cry, 
For E'mbrugh wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty-nine, thou's but a bairn. 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak care. 
Thou now has got thy daddie's chair, 
Nae hand-cufPd, mizzl'd, hap-shackl'a 

Regent, • 

But, like himsel, a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man : 
As muckle better as you can. 

January i, 1789. 



VERSES WRITTEN UNDER THE PORTR.\IT OF 
FERGUSSON THE POET, 



PRESENTED 



A COPY OF THAT AUTHOR S WORKS 
t YOUNG LADY IN EDINBURGH, MARCH igTH, I787. 



Curse on ungrateful man, that can be pleas'd, 
And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 
O thou, my elder brother in misfortune. 
By far my elder brother in the Muses, 
With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 
Why is the Bard unpitied by the world. 
Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures? 





WRITTEN AT 



DELIA. 



LAMENT {see Note), 

TIME WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE SCOTLAND. 



O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mountain straying, 
Where the wild winds of winter incessantly rave, 

What woes wring my heart while intently surveying 
The storm's gloomy path on the breast of the wave. 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow me to wail. 

Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native shore; 

Where the flower which bloom'd sweetest in Coila's green vale, 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more. 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll wander, 
And smile at the moon's rimpled face in the wave; 

No more shall my arms cling with fondness around her, 
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her grave. 

Mo more shall the soft thrill of love warm my breast, 

I haste with the storm to a far distant shore; 
Where unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall rest, 

And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



DELIA. 



Fair the face of orient day. 
Fair the tints of op'ning rose ; 
But fairer still my Delia dawns, 
More lovely farther beauty blows. 

Sweet the lark's wild-warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear; 
But, Delia, more delightful still 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 



The flower-enamour'd busy bee 
The rosy banquet loves to sip; 
Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the sun-brown'd Arab's lip; 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 

Let me, no vagrant insect, rove ! 

O let me steal one liquid kiss ! 

For oh ! my soul is parch'd with love ! 



ON THE DEATH OF SIR JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 




Thk lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. 

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave; 

Th' inconstant blast howl'd thro' the dark'ning air, 
And hollow whistl'd in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell, 
Once the lov'd haunts of Scotia's royal train; 

Or mus'd where limpid streams, once hallow'd well. 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. 



& 



S/A' JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 




^'ar, 



Th' increasing lilast roar'd round the beetling rocks. 
The clouds swift- wing'd flew o'er the starry sky, 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks, 
And shooting meteors caught the startled eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 

And 'mong the clifis disclos'd a stately Form, 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast, 
And mix'd lier wailings with the raving storm. 

Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 

'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe. 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Revers'd that spear, redoubtable in w;„, 

Reclin'd that banner, erst in fields unfarl'd. 

That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar, 

And brav'd the mighty monarchs of the world. — 

" My patriot son fills an untimely grave ! " 
With accents wild and lifted arms she cried; 

" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to save, 
Low lies the heart that swell'd with honest pride 1 

" A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; 

The drooping arts surround their patron's bier. 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt sigh. — ■ 

"I saw my sons resume their ancient fire; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow; 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid their guardian low. — 

" My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 

While empty greatness saves a worthless name? 

No; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 
And future ages hear his growing fame. 

"And I will join a mother's tender cares. 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last. 

That distant years may boast of other Blairs," — 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping blast. 





THE POET'S WELCOME. 



TO MISS FERRIER, 



ENCLOSING THE ELEGY ON SIR J. H. BLAIR. 




Nae heathen name shall I prefix 

Frae Pindus or Parnassus; 
Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks. 

For rhyme-inspiring lasses. 

Jove's tunefu' dochters three times three 
Made Homer deep their debtor; 

Kut, gi'en the body half an ee, 
Nine P^erriers wad done better I 

Last day my mind was in a bog, 
Down George's Street I stoited; 



A creeping cauld prosaic fog 
My very senses doited. 

Do what I dought to set her free, 

My saul lay in the mire; 
Ye turned a neuk — I saw your ee — 

She took the wing like fire ! 

The mournfu' sang I here enclose, 

In gratitude I send you; 
And wish and pray in rhyme sincere, 

A' gude things may attend you ! 



WRITTEN ON THE BLANK LEAF 

OF A COPY OF THE FIRST EDITION [OF HIS POEMS], WHICH I PRES, 
TO AN OLD SWEETHEART, THEN MARRIED. 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear. 
Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 

Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere; 
Friendship ! 'tis all cold duty now allows. 

And when you read the simple artless rhymes, 
One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, 

Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes. 
Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 



THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITIMATE CHILD 



Thou's welcome, wean ! mishanter fa 

me, 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy, 
Shall ever danton me, or awe me. 

My sweet wee lady. 
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca' me 

Tit-ta or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonie Betty, 
I fatherly will kiss and daut thee, 
As dear an' near my heart I set thee 

Wi' as gude will. 
As a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' hell. 



What tho' they ca' me fornicator. 
An' tease my name in kintra clatter : 
The mair they talk I'm kent the better, 

E'en let them clash; 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckless matter 

To gie ane fash. 



Sweet fruit o' monie a merry dint. 

My funny toil is now a' tint. 

Sin' thou came to the warl asklent, 

Which fools may scoff at: 
In my last plack thy part's be in't — 

The better haff o't. 




n 



LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT. 



141 



An' if thou be what I wad hae thee, 
An' tak the counsel I shall gie thee, 
A lovm' father I'll be to thee. 

If thou be spar'd; 
Thro' a' thy childish years I'll ee thee. 

An' think't vveel war'd. 



Gude grant that thou may aye inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, an' merit, 
An' thy poor worthless daddy's spirit, 

Without his failins, 
'Twill please me mair to hear an' see't. 

Than stockit mailins. 



LETTER TO JOHN GOUDIE, KILMARNOCK, 



ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS ESSAYS. 



O GoUDiE ! terror of the Whigs, 
Dread o' black coats and rev'rend wigs. 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin' looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin' 'glowrin' Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition ; 
Fy, bring Black-Jock, her state physician. 

To see her water; 
Alas ! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 

Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple. 
But now she's got an unco' ripple; 
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, 



Nigh unto death; 
See how she fetches at the thrapple, 
An' gasps for breath. 

Enthusiasm's past redemption, 

Gaen in a galloping consumption. 

Not a' the quacks, with a' their gumption, 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gies strong presumption. 

Death soon will end her. 

'Tis you and Taylor are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief; 
But gin the Lord's ain folks gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
An' twa red peats wad send relief, 

An' end the quarrel. 



LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, GLENCONNER. 



Auld comrade dear and brither sinner, 
How's a' the folk about Glenconner; 
How do you this blae eastlin wind, 
That's like to blaw a body blind? 
For me, my faculties are frozen, 
My dearest member nearly dozen'd. 
I've sent you here by Johnie Simson, 
Twa sage philosophers to glimpse on; 
Smith, wi' his sympathetic feeling. 
An' Reid, to common sense appealing. 
Philosophers have fought an' wrangled, 
An' meikle Greek an' Latin mangled. 
Till wi' their logic-jargon tir'd, 
An' in the depth of Science mir'd, 
To common sense they now appeal, 
What wives an' wabsters see an' feel. 
But, hark ye, friend, I charge you strictly. 
Peruse them, an' return them quickly, 



For now I'm grown sae cursed douse, 
I pray an' ponder butt the house. 
My shins, my lane, I there sit roastin'. 
Perusing Bunyan, Brown, an* Boston; 
Till by an' by, if I baud on, 
I'll grunt a real Gospel-groan : 
Already I begin to try it. 
To cast my een up like a pyet. 
When by the gun she tumbles o'er, 
Flutt'ring an' gaspin in her gore : 
Sae shortly you shall see me bright, 
A burning an' a shming light. 

My heart-warm love to guid auld Glen, 
The ace an' wale of honest men : 
When bending down wi' auld gray hairs. 
Beneath the load of years and cares, 
May He who made him still support him, 
An' views beyond the grave comfort him 



-[-- 142 



EPISTLE FROM ESOFUS TO MAFIA. 



His worthy fam'ly far and near, 
God bless them a' vvi' grace and gear ! 
My auld school-fellow, Preacher 
Willie, 
The manly tar, my mason Billie, 
An' Auchenbay, I wish him joy; 
If he's a parent, lass or boy. 
May he be dad, and Meg the mither 
Just five-and-forty years thegither ! 
An' no forgetting wabster Charlie, 
I'm tauld he offers very fairly. 
An' Lord, remember singing Sannock, 
Wi'hale-breeks,saxpence,an' a bannock. 
An' next, my auld acquaintance, Nancy, 
Since she is fitted to her fancy; 
An' her kind stars hae airted till her 
A good chiel wi' a pickle siller. 
My kindest, best respects I sen' it. 
To cousin Kate an' sister Janet ; 



Tell them frae me, wi' chiels be cautious. 
For, faith, they'll aiblins fin' them 

fash io us : 
To grant a heart is fairly civil, 
But to grant a maidenhead's the devil. — 
An' lastly, Jamie, for yoursel. 
May guardian angels tak a spell. 
An' steer you seven miles south o' hell : 
But first, before you see heav'n's glory, 
May ye get monie a merry story, 
Monie a laugh, and monie a drink, 
An' aye enough o' needfu' clink. 

Now fare ye weel, an' joy be wi' you, 
For my sake this I beg it o' you. 
Assist poor Simson a' ye can, 
Ye'll fin' him just an honest man; 
Sae I conclude and quat my chanter, 
Yours, saint or sinner, 

Rob the Ranter. 



EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. 



From those drear solitudes and frowzy cells. 

Where infamy with sad repentance dwells; 

Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, 

And deal from iron hands the spare repast; 

Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin. 

Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; 

Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar. 

Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore, no more; 

Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing. 

Beat hemp for others, riper for the string : 

From these dire scenes my wretched lines I date, 

To tell Maria her Esopus' fate. 

" Alas ! I feel I am no actor here ! " 

'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear ! 

Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale 

Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale; 

Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poU'd, 

By barber woven, and by barber sold. 

Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest care, 

Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 

The hero of the mimic scene, no more 

I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar; 

Or haughty Chieftain, 'mid the din of arms. 

In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms; 

While sans culottes stoop up the mountain high. 

And steal from me Maria's prying eye. 



EPISTLE FROM ESOPUS TO MARIA. 



143 



Bless'd Highland bonnet ! Once my proudest dress, 

Now prouder still, Maria's temples press. 

I see her wave thy towering plumes afar, 

And call each coxcomb to the wordy war. 

I see her face the tirst of Ireland's sons, 

And even out-Irish his Hibernian bronze; 

The crafty colonel leaves the tartan'd lines, 

For other wars, where he a hero shines : 

The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred. 

Who owns a Bushby's heart without the head. 

Comes 'mid a string of coxcombs to display, 

That veni,vidi, vici, is his way; 

The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks. 

And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich hulks; 

Though there, his heresies in church and state 

Might well award him Muir and Palmer's fate: 

Still she undaunted reels and rattles on. 

And dares the public like a noontide sun. 

(What scandal call'd Maria's jaunty stagger. 

The ricket reeling of a crooked swagger? 

Whose spleen e'en worse than Burns's venom when 

He dips in gall unmix'd his eager pen, — 

And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 

Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine; 

The idiot strum of vanity bemused. 

And even th' abuse of poesy abused; 

W^ho call'd her verse a parish workhouse, made 

For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray'd?) 

A workhouse ! ah, that sound awakes my woes, 

And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repose ! 

In durance vile here must I wake and weep, 

And all my frowzy couch in sorrow steep; 

That straw where many a rogue has lain of yore, 

And vermin'd gipsies litter'd heretofore. 

Why, Lonsdale, thu^ thy wrath on vagrants pour, 

Must earth no rascal, save thyself, endure? 

Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell. 

And make a vast monopoly of hell ? 

Thou know'st, the virtues cannot hate thee worse, 

The vices also, must they club their curse? 

Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 

Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all? 

Maria, send me to thy griefs and cares ; 
In all of thee sure thy Esopus shares. 
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, 
Who on my fair-one satire's vengeance hurls? 
Who calls thee pert, affected, vain coquette, 
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 
Who says that fool alone is not thy due, 
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true? 




144 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 



Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, 

And dare the war with all of woman born : 

For who can write and speak as thou and I ? 

My periods that decyphering defy, 

And thy still matchless tongue that conquers -all reply. 

ON A SUICIDE. 

Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, 

Planted by Satan's dibble — 
Poor silly wretch, he's damn'd himsel' 

To save the Lord the trouble. 

A FAREWELL. 

Farewell, dear Friend ! may guid luck hit you, 
And, mang her favourites admit you ! 
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you. 

May nane believe him ! 
And ony De'il that thinks to get you. 

Good Lord deceive him. 

THE FAREWELL. 




Farewell, old .Scotia's bleak domains. 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear ! 
A brother's sigh ! a sister's tear ! 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess ! tho' thou'rt bereft 

Of my parental care ; 
A faithful brother I have left, 
My part in him thou'lt share ! 
Adieu too, to you too. 

My Smith, my bosom frien'; 
When kindly you mind me, 
O then befriend my Jean ! 



When bursting anguish tears my heart, 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part? 
Thou weeping answ'rest " no ! " 
Alas ! misfortune stares my face. 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu ! 
I, with a much-indebted tear. 
Shall still remember you ! 
All-hail then, the gale then. 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore ! 
It rustles, and whistles, 
I'll never see thee more ! 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, 

OF FINTRY : 



ESQ. 



ON THE CLOSE OF THE DISPUTED ELECTION BETWEEN SIR JAMES JOHNSTONE AND CAPTAIN 
MILLER, FOR THE DUMFRIES DISTRICT OF BOROUGHS. 

F'iNTRY, my stay in worldly strife, 
Friend o' my Muse, friend o' my life. 

Are ye as idle's I am? 
Come then, wi' uncouth, kintra fleg. 
O'er Pegasus I'll fling my leg. 

And ye shall see me try him. 




n 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 145 

I'll sing the zeal Drumlanrig bears 
"Who left the all -important cares 

Of princes and their darlings; 
And, bent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster loons. 

And kissing barefit carlins. 

Combustion thro' our boroughs rode 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad 

Of mad unmuzzled lions; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfurl'd. 
And Westerha' and Hopeton hurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But cautious Queensberry left the war, 
Th' unmanner'd dust might soil his star; 

Besides, he hated bleeding; 
But left behind him heroes bright, 
Heroes in Csesarean fight, 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 

' O ! for a throat like huge Mons-Meg, 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banner ! 
Heroes and heroines commix, 
All in the field of politics, 

To win immortal honour. 

M' Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows !) 

Led on the loves and graces : 
She won each gaping burgess' heart, 
While he, all-conquering, play'd his part 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps, 
Tropes, metaphors and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder % 
Glenriddel, skill'd in rusty coins. 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 
And bared the treason under. 

In either wing two champions fought. 
Redoubted Staig, who set at nought 

The wildest savage Tory : 
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground; 
High-waved his magnum-bonum round 

With Cyclopean fury. 

Miller brought up th' artillery ranks, 
The many-pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ! 



^ 





Jt 



EPISTLE TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. 



While Maxwelton, that baron bold, 
'Mid Lawson's port entrench'd his hold, 

And threaten'd worse damnation. 

To these what Tory hosts oppos'd, 
With these what Tory warriors clos'd, 

Surpasses my descriving : 
Squadrons extended long and large, 
With furious speed rush to the charge, 
Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate. 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ! 
Grim Horror girn'd — pale Terror roar'd, 
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd. 

And Hell mix'd in the brulzie. 

As Highland crags by thunder cleft. 
When lightnings fire the stormy lift, 

Hurl down with crashing rattle; 
As flames among a hundred woods; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods; 

Such is the rage of battle ! 

The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly 

Before th' approaching fellers- 
The Whigs come on like Ocean's roar, 
When all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bullers. 

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep night, 
Deoarted Whigs enjoy the fight. 

And think on former daring ; 
The muftied murtherer of Charles 
The Magna Charta flag unfurls, 

All deadly gules its bearing. 

Nor wanting ghosts of Tory fame, 

Bold Scrimgeour follows gallant Graham, 

Auld Covenanters shiver. 
(Forgive, forgive, much wrong'd Montrose ! 
Now death and hell engulf thy foes, 

Thou liv'st on high for ever !) 

Stiil o'er the field the combat burns. 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns ; 

But Fate the word has spoken. 
For woman's wit and strength o' man, 
Alas ! can do but what they can ! 

The Tory ranks are broken. 





ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. 



-h:U 



147 



O that my een were flowing burns ! 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cubs' undoing ! 
That 1 might greet, that I might cry, 
While Tories fall, while Tories fly. 

And furious Whigs pursuing ! 

What Whig but melts for good Sir James? 
Dear to his country by the names 

Friend, patron, benefactor ! 
Not Pulteney's wealth can Pulteney save ! 
And Hopeton falls, the generous brave ! 

And Stewart, bold as Hector ! 

Thou, Pitt, shalt rue this overthrow; 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe; 

And Melville melt in wailing ! 
How Fox and Sheridan rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, " O Prince, arise. 

Thy power is all-prevailing ! " 

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar 
H2 only hears and sees the war, 

A cool spectator purely ! 
So, when the storm the forest rends, 
The robin in the hedge descends, 

And sober chirps securely. 



STANZAS ON THE DUKE OF QUEENSBERRY. 



How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace, 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story? 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted — 
The very name of Douglas blasted — 

His that inverted glory. 



Hate, envy, oft the Douglas bore; 
But he has superadded more. 

And sunk them in contempt : 
Follies and crimes have stain'd the name. 
But, Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, 

Fromaught that'sgood exempt- 



VERSES 



ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE 



As on the banks o' wandering Nith, 

Ae smiling simmer-morn I stray'd. 
And traced its bonie howes and haughs. 

Where Unties sang and lambkins 
play'd. 
I sat me down upon a craig. 

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, 
When, from the eddying deep below. 

Uprose the genius of the stream. 



WOODS NEAR DRUMLANRIG. 

Dark, like the frowning rock, his 
brow, 

And troubled, like his wintry wave, 
And deep, as sughs the boding wind 

Amang his eaves, the sigh he gave — 
" And came ye he.-e, my son," he cried, 

" To wander in niy birken shade ? 
To muse some favourite Scottish theme, 

Or sing some favourite Scottish maid 




-.\z£. 



^ 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 



" There was a time, it's nae lang syne, 

Ye might hae seen me in my pride, 
When a' my banks sae bravely saw 

Their woody pictures in my tide; 
When hanging beech and spreading elm 

Shaded my stream sae clear and cool, 
And stately oaks their twisted arms 

Threw broad and dark across the 
pool; 

•' When glinting, through the trees, 
appear'd 

The wee white cot aboon the mill, 
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek. 

That slowly curled up the hill. 
But now the cot is bare and cauld, 

Its branchy shelter's lost and gane. 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast its lane." 



"Alas ! " said I, " v\hat ruefu' chance 

Has twined ye o' your stately trees? 
Has laid your rocky bosom bare? 

Hasstripp'dthecleedingo' your braes? 
Was it the bitter eastern blast, 

That scatters blight in early spring? 
Or was't the wil'fire scorch'd their 
boughs, 

Or canker-worm wi' secret sting? '' 

" Nae eastlin blast," the sprite replied ; 

" It blew na here sae tierce and fell. 
And on my dry and halesome banks 

Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : 
Man ! cruel man ! " the genius sigh'd — 

As through the cliffs he sank him 
down — 
" The worm that gnaw'd my bonie trees, 

That reptile wears a ducal crown." 



EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN. 




Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie ! 
Though fortune's road be rough an' hilly 
To every iiddling, rhyming billie. 

We never heed. 
But take it like the unl:>ack'd filly. 

Proud o' her speed. 

When idly goavan whyles we saunter, 
Yirr, fancy barks, awa' we canter 
Uphill, down brae, till some mishanter, 

Some black bog-hole, 
Arrests us, then the scathe an' banter 

We're forced to thole. 

Hale be your heart ! Hale be your fiddle ! 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle. 
To cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' this wild warl', 
Jntil you on a crummock driddle 

i\ gray-hair'd carl. 

Come wealth, come poortith, late or 

soon. 
Heaven send your heart-strings ay in 

tune. 
And screw your temper-pins aboon 

A fifth or mair. 
The melancholious, lazie croon, 
O' cankrie care. 



May still your life from day to day 
Nae " lente largo " in the play. 
But " allegretto forte " gay 

Harmonious flow 
A sweeping,kindling,bauld strathspey — 

Encore ! Bravo ! 

A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or sang. 
An' never think o' right an' wrang 

By square an' rule, 
But as the clegs o' feeling stang 

Are wise or fool. 

My hand-waled curse keep hard in 

chase 
The harpy, hoodock, purse-proud race, 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace — 

Their tuneless hearts ! 
May fire-side discords jar a base 

To a' their parts ! 



But 



hand, 



careless 



come, your 
brither, 
r th' ither warl' if there's anither, 
An' that there is I've little swilher 

About the matter; 
We cheek for chow shall jog thegither, 
I'se ne'er bid better. 




\ fi 






A 


G7^=^. 


" Ki h 


1 






c 


' ON STIRLING. 149 \. 


We've faults and failings — granted 


My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 




clearly, 


I'll seek my pursie whare I tint it. 






We're frail backsliding mortals merely, 


Ance to the Indies I were wonted, 




^ 


Eve's bonie squad priests wyte them 


Some cantraip hour. 


' 


sheerly 


By some sweet elf I'll yet be dinted, 




For our grand fa' ; 


Then vive V amour ! 




But still, but still, I like them dearly — 






God bless them a' ! 


Faites nies haissemaiHs respectueus:, 
To sentimental sister Susie, 




Ochon for poor Castalian drinkers, 


An' honest Lucky; no to roose you, 




When they fa' foul o' earthly jinkers, 


Ye may be proud. 




The witching cursed delicious blinkers 


That sic a couple Fate allows ye 




Hae put me hyte. 


To grace your blood. 




And gart me weet my waukrife winkers, 






Wi' girnin spite. 


Nae mair at present can I measure, 
An' trowth my rhymin' ware's nae 




But by yon moon ! — • and that's high 


treasure ; 




swearin' — 


But when in Ayr, some half hoar's 




An' every star within my hearin' ! 


leisure. 




An' by her een wha was a dear ane \ 

I'll ne'er forget; 
I hope to gie the jads a clearin' 


Be't light, be't dark, 




Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 




To call at Park. 




In fair play yet. 


Robert Burns. 




Mossgiei, -ioth October, 1786. 




EPITAPH ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. 




Here lies a rose, a budding rose. 




Blasted before its bloom; 




Whose innocence did sweets disclose 




Beyond that flower's perfume. 




To those who for her loss are grieved, 




This consolation's given — 




She's from a world of woe relieved, 




And blooms a rose in heaven. 




EPITAPH ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON. 




Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct. 




And empty all his barrels : 




He's blest — if, as he brew'd, he drink. 




In upright honest morals. 




ON STIRLING. 




Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd. 




And laws for Scotland's weal ordain'd; 




^ 


But now unroof'd their palace stands, 
ft Their sceptre's sway'd by other hands; ri 
The injured Stuart line is gone, 
A race outlandish fills their throne. 
An idiot race to honour lost. 
Who know them best, despise them most. 


-• 


-- 


3 J 




i 


^. , . . ..^ 


) 


\ 


^3d 


. ^ v"^ . r-' 


i ^V1S> 





ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB. 



LINES 

ON BEING TOLD THAT THE ABOVE VERSES WOULD AFFECT HIS PROSPECTS. 

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name 

Shall no longer appear in the records of fame ; 

Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes like the Bible, 

Says the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis a libel ? 

REPLY TO THE MINISTER OF GLADSMUIR. 

Like Esop's lion. Burns says, sore I feel 
All others scorn — but damn that ass's heel. 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. 



In this strange land, this uncoutli 

clime, 
A land unknown to prose or rhyme; 
Where words ne'er crost the Muse's 

heckles. 
Nor limpit in poetic shackles; 
A land that piose did never view it, 
Except when drunk he stacher't through 

it; 
Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek. 
Hid in an atmosphere of reek, 
I hear a wheel thrum i' the neuk, 
I hear it — for in vain I leuk. — 
The red peat gleams, a fiery kernel, 
Enhusked by a fog infernal : 
Here, for my wonted rhyming raptures, 
I sit and count my sins by chapters; 
For life and spunk like ither Christians, 
I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 
Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies, 
Wi' nae ken face but Jenny Geddes. 
Jenny, my Pegasean piide ! 
Dowie she saunters down Nithside, 
And ay a westlin leuk she throws. 
While tears hap o'er her auld brown 

nose! 



Was it for this, wi' canny care. 

Thou bure the Bard through many a 

shire? 
At howes or hillocks never stumbled. 
And late or early never grumbled? — 
O, had I power like inclination, 
I'd heeze thee up a constellation. 
To canter with the Sagitarre, 
Or loup the ecliptic like a bar; 
Or turn the pole like any arrow; 
Or, when auld Phctbus bids good- 
morrow, 
Down the zodiac urge the race, 
And cast dirt on his godship's face; 
For I could lay my bread and kail 
He'd ne'er cast saut upo' thy tail. — 
Wi' a' this care and a' this grief, 
And sma', sma' prospect of relief. 
And nought but peat reek i' my head, 
How can I write what ye can read? — 
Tarbolton, twenty-fourth o' June, 
Ye'U find me in a better tune; 
But till we meet and weet our whistle, 
Tak this excuse for nae epistle. 

Robert Burns. 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB 



Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours, 
Unskaith'dby hunger'd Highland boors; 
Lo-d grant nae duddie desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 



E PKESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY. 

She likes — as lambkins like a knife. 
Faith, you and Applecross were right 
To keep the Highland hounds in sight, 
I doubt na' ! they wad bid nae better 
Than let them ance out owre the watei 



%. 




TO .1/A\ yOHX KEXIVED V. 



Than up ajiiang thae lakes and seas 
They'll mak' what rules and laws they 

ple'ase; 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland bluid a ranklin'; 
Some Washington again may head them, 
Or some Montgomery fearless lead them, 
Till God knows what may be effected 
When by such heads and hearts di- 
rected; 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire 
May to Patrician rights aspire ! 
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sack- 

ville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile, 
An' whare will ye get Howes and 

Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance, 
To cowe the rebel generation. 
An' save the honour o' the nation? 

They an' be d d 1 what right hae 

they 
To meat or sleep, or light o' day ! 
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom. 
But what your lordship likes to gie them ? 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear ! 
Your hand's owre light on them, I fear; 
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and 

bailies, 
I canna' say but they do gaylies; 
They lay aside a' tender mercies, 

yune I, A>i>io ^hindi, 5790. 



An' tirl the hallions to the birses; 

Yet while they're only poind't and 

herriet. 
They'll keep their stubborn Highland 

spirit; 
But smash them ! crash them a' to 

spalls ! 
An' rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 
The young dogs, swinge them to the 

labour ! 
Let wark an' hunger mak' them sober 1 
The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont. 
Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd I 
An' if the wives an' dirty brats 
E'en thigger at your doors an' yetts 
Flaffan wi' duds an' grey wi' beas', 
Frightin' awa your deucks an' geese, 
Get out a horsewhip or a jowler. 
The langest thong, the fiercest growler. 
An gar the tatter'd gypsies pack 
Wi' a' their bastarts on their back ! 
Go on, my lord ! I lang to meet you. 
An' in my house at hame to greet you ; 
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle. 
The benmost neuk beside the ingle. 
At my right han' assign 'd your seat 
'Tween Herod's hip an' Polycrate, — 
Or if you on your station tarrow 
Between Almagro and Pizarro, 
A seat, Pm sure, ye're weel deservin't; 
An' till ye come — Your humljle servant, 
Beelzebub. 



TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 



Now Kennedy, if foot or ho-se 

E'er bring you in by Mauchline Corss, 

Lord man, there's lasses there wad force 

A hermit's fancy, 
\nd down the gate in faith they're worse 

And mair unchancy. 

But as I'm savin' please step to Dow's 
And taste sic gear as Johnny brews. 
Till some bit callan brings me news 

That you are there, 
And if we dinna had a bouze 

I'se ne'er drink mair. 

It's no I like to sit an' swallow. 
Then like a swine to puke an' wallow. 
But gie me just a true good fallow 



Wi' right ingine. 
And spunkie ance to make us mellow, 
And then we'll shine. 

Now if ye're ane o' warl's folk, 
Wha rate the wearer by the cloak, 
An' sklent on poverty their joke, 

Wi' bitter sneer, 
Wi' you no friendship I will troke 

Nor cheap nor dear. 

But if, as I'm informed weel. 
Ye hate as ill's the vera deil, 
The flinty hearts that canna feel — 

Come, Sir, here's tae you; 
Hae there's my haun' I wiss you weel. 

And gude be wi' you. 



# 




ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUN DAS, ESQ. 



ON THE DEATH OF ROBERT DUNDAS, ESQ. 

OF ARNISTON, LATE LORD PRESIDENT OF THE COURT OF SESSION. 

Lone on the bleaky hills the straying flocks 
Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering rocks; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, 
The gathering floods burst o'er the distant plains; 
Beneath the blasts the leafless forests groan; 
The hollow caves return a sullen moan. 

Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves ! 
Unheard, unseen, by human ear or eye. 
Sad to your sympathetic scenes I fly; 
Where to the whistling blast and water's roar. 
Pale Scotia's recent wound I may deplore. 

O heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 

A loss these evil days can ne'er repair ! 

Justice, the high vicegerent of her God, 

Her doubtful balance eyed, and sway'd her rod; 

Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow, 

She sunk, abandon'd to the \\ildest woe. 



Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den. 
Now gay in hope explore the paths of men : 
See from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on Poverty his cruel eyes; 
Keen on the helpless victim see him fly, 
And stifle, dark, the feebly-bursting cry : 

Mark ruffian Violence, distain'd with crimes. 

Rousing elate in these degenerate times; 

View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 

As guileful Fraud points out the erring way; 

While subtile Litigation's pliant tongue 

The life-blood equal sucks of Right and Wrong: 

Hark, injured Want recounts th' unlisten'd tale. 

And much-wrong'd Mis'ry pours th' unpitied wail ! 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains : 
Ye tempests rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll! 
Ye suit the joyless tenor of my soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
Be nameless wilds and lonely wanderings mine, 
To mourn the woes my country must endure, 
That v/ound degenerate ages cannot cure. 




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ORTHODOX. 


ORTHODOX. 153 








TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ, 




'' 


0. COULD I give thee India's wealth, 


But golden sands did never grace 


- 


^ 






As I this trifle send ! 


The Heliconian stream; 


' 






Because thy joy in both would be 


Then take what gold could never buy — ■ 








To share them with a friend. 


An honest Bard's esteem. 








ON THE DEATH 


OF A LAP-DOG, 








NAMED 


ECHO. 








In wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 


Ye jarring, screeching things around, 








Your heavy loss deplore; 


Scream your discordant joys; 








Now half-extinct your powers of song, 


Now half your din of tuneless sound 








Sweet Echo is no more. 


With Echo silent lies. 








LINES WRITTEN A^ 


r LOUDON MANSE. 








The night was still, and o'er the hill 


Sae merrily they danced the ring, 








The moon shone on the castle wa' ; 


Frae eenin' till the cock did craw; 








The mavis sang, while dew-drops hang 


And aye the o'erword 0' the spring. 








Around her, on the castle wa'. 


Was Irvine's bairns are bonie a'. 








ORTHODOX, 


ORTHODOX. 








A SECOND VEKSION O 


- THE kirk's alarm. 








Orthodox, orthodox. 


Provost John is still deaf 








Who believe in John Knox, 


To the church's relief, 








Let me sound an alarm to your con- 


And orator Bob is its ruin, 








science — 


Town of Ayr, 








There's an heretic blast, 


And orator Bob is its ruin. 








Has been blawn i' the wast 
That what is not sense must be nonsense, 

Orthodox, 
That what is not sense must be nonsense. 


D'rymple mild, D'rymple mild, 
Tho' your heart's like a child, 
And your life like the new-driven snaw, 
Yet that winna save ye. 








Doctoi Mac, Doctor Mac, 


Old Satan must have ye 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa, 

D'rymple mild, 
For preaching that three's ane an' twa. 








Ye should stretch on a rack, 
To strike evil-doers wi' terror; 
To join faith and sense. 








Upon any pretence, 


Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, 








Was heretic damnable error, 


Seize your spiritual guns. 








Doctor Mac, 


Ammunition you never can need; 










p. Was heretic damnable error. 


Your hearts are the stuff, 
Will be powder enough. 


'\ 


p 








Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, 


And your skulls are a storehouse of lead, 












It was rash, I declare. 


Calvin's sons. 












To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; 


And your skulls are a storehouse of lead. 




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54 



OH T HOD ox, OR THOD OX. 



Rumble John, Rumble John, 
Mount the steps with a groan, 

Cry the book is with heresy cramm'd; 
Then lug out your ladle, 
Deal brimstone like aidle. 

And roar every note o' the damn'd, 
Rumble John, 

And roar every note o' the damn'd. 

Simper James, Simper James, 
Leave the fair Killie dames, 

There's a holier chase in your view; 
I'll lay on your head. 
That the pack ye'll soon lead, 

For puppies like you there's but few, 
Simper James, 

For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawnie, Singet Sawnie, 

Are ye herding the penny, 
Unconscious what danger awaits? 

With a jump, yell, and howl, 

Alarm every soul, 
For Hannibal's just at your gates, 
Singet Sawnie, 
For Hannibal's just at your gates. 

Andrew Gowk, Andrew Gowk, 
Ye may slander the book, 
And the book nought the waur — let me 
tell you; 
The' ye're rich and look big. 
Vet lay by hat and wig, 
And ye'll haeacalf's-head o' sma' value, 

Andrew Gowk, 
And ye'll hae a calf s-head o' sma' value. 

Poet Willie, Poet Willie, 

Gie the doctor a volley, 
Wi' your "liberty's chain" and your wit : 

O'er Pegasus' side. 

Ye ne'er laid a stride, 
Ye only stood by when he sh — , 

Poet Willie, 
Ye only stood by when he sh — . 

Bar Steenie, Bar Steenie, 
What mean ye ? what mean ye ? 
If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter, 



Ye may hae some pretence, man. 
To havins and sense, man, 

Wi' people that ken you nae better, 
Bar Steenie, 

Wi' people that ken you nae better. 

Jamie Goose, Jamie Goose, 
Ye hae made but toom roose, 
O' hunting the wicked lieutenant; 
But the doctor's your mark, 
For the Lord's holy ark, 
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin 
in't, 

Jamie Goose, 
He has cooper'd and ca'd a wrong pin 
in't. 

Davie Bluster, Davie Bluster, 

For a saunt if ye muster. 
It's a sign they're no nice o' recruits, 

Yet to worth let's be just, 

Royal blood ye might boast, 
If the ass were the King o' the brutes, 

Davie Bluster, 
If the ass were the King o' the brutes. 

Muirland George, Muirland George, 

Whom the Lord made a scourge, 
To claw common sense for her sins ; 

If ill manners were wit, 

There's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor doctor at ance, 

Muirland George, 
To confound the poor doctor at ance. 

Cessnockside, Cessnockside, 
Wi' your turkey-cock pride, 

O' manhood but sma' is your share ! 
Ye've the figure, it's true, 
Even our foes maun allow. 

And your friends daurnasay he hae mair. 
Cessnockside, 

And your friends daurnasay ye hae mair, 

Daddie Auld, Daddie Auld, 

There's a tod i' the fauld, 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk; 

Tho' ye downa do skaith, 

Ye'll be in at the death. 
And if ye canna bite ye can bark, 
Daddie Auld, 
And if ye canna bite ye can bark. 



jn; 



7=^- 




ELEGY ON PEG NICHOLSON. 



155 



Poet Burns, Poet Burns, 

Wi' your priest-skelping turns, 
Why desert ye your auld native shire? 

Tho' your Muse is a gipsy, 

Yet were she even tipsy, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 

Poet Burns, 
She could ca' us nae waur than we are. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Afton's Laird, Afton's Laird, 

When your pen can be spared, 
A copy o' this I bequeath. 

On the same sicker score 

I mentioned before. 
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith, 

Afton's Laird, 
To that trusty auld worthy Clackleith. 



THE SELKIRK GRACE. 

Some hae meat, and canna eat, 
And some wad eat that want it; 

But we hae meat and we can eat, 
And sae the Lord be thanket. 



ELEGY ON FHE DEATH OF PEG NICHOLSON. 



Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. 

As ever trode on airn; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

An' past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare, 
An' rode thro' thick an' thin; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
An' wanting even the skin. 



Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare, 

An' ance she bare a priest; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare. 
An' the priest he rode her sair; 

An'meikle oppress'd an' bruised shewas, 
As priest-rid cattle are. 



ON SEEING MISS FONTENELLE 



IN .^ FAVOURITE CHARACTER. 



Sweet naivete of feature. 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 

Not to thee, but thanks to Nature, 
Thou art acting but thyself. 



Wert thuu awkward, stiff, affected, 
Spurning nature, torturing art; 

Loves and graces all rejected. 
Then indeed thou'dst act a part. 



THE SOLEMN LEAGUE AND COVENANT. 






The Solemn League and Covenant 

Now brings a smile, now brings a tear; 

But sacred Freedom, too, was theirs : 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneer. 



F^= 




1 156 



THE KIRK OF LAMING TON. 



ON MISS TESSY LEVVARS. 



Talk not to me of savages 
From Afric's burning sun, 

No savage e'er could rend my heart, 
As, Jessy, thou hast done. 



But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight. 
Not ev'n to view the het^venly choir. 

Would be so blest a sight. 




EPITAPH ON MISS JESSY LEWARS. 

Say, Sages, what's the charm on earth 
Can turn Death's dart aside? 

It is not purity and worth. 
Else Jessy had not died. 



THE RECOVERY OF JESSY LEWARS. 

But rarely seen since Nature's birth. 

The natives of the sky. 
Yet still one Seraph's left on earth. 

For Jessy did not die. 



THE TOAST. 

Fill me with the rosy wine, 
Call a toast, a toast divine; 
Give the Poet's darling flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name; 
Then thou mayest freely boast, 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 



THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON. 

A.S cauld a wind as ever blew, 
A caulder kirk, and in't but few; 
As cauld a minister's e'er spak, 
Ye'se a' be het ere I come back. 



WRITTEN ON A BLANK LEAF 



OF ONE OF MISS HANNAH MOKE S 

Thou flattering mark of friendship kind. 
Still may thy pages call to mind 

The dear, the beauteous donor : 
Though sweetly female every part. 
Yet such a head, and more the heart. 

Does both the sexes honour. 
She .show'd her tastes refined and iust 



T^- 



When she selected thee, 
Yet deviating own I must. 
For so approving me. 

But kind still, I'll mind still 

The giver in the gift; 
I'll bless her and wiss her 
A Friend above the Lift. 





WILLIE CHALMEKS. 



57 



INSCRIPTION ON A GOBLET. 

WRITTEN IN THE HOUSE OF MR. SYME. 

There's death in the cup — sae beware ! 

Nay, more — there is danger in touching; 
But wha can avoid the fell snare? 

The man and his wine's sae bewitching ! 



THE BOOK-WORMS. 

Through and through the inspired leaves. 
Ye maggots, make your windings; 

But, oh ! respect his lordship's taste, 
And spare his golden bindings. 

ON ROBERT RIDDEL. 

To Riddel, much-lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear; 
Reader, dost value matchless worth? 

This ivied cot revere. 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 



Wi' braw ncv branks in mickle pride, 

And eke a braw new brechan. 
My Pegasus I'm got astride, 

And up Parnassus pechin; 
Whiles owre a bush wi' downward crush. 

The doited beastie stammers; 
Then up he gets, and oft" he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 

I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes; 
1 am nae stranger to your fame 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonie face sae mild and sweet. 

His honest heart enamours. 
And faith ye'U no be lost a' whit, 

Tho' waired on ^^'illie Chalmers. 

Auld Truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, 

And Honour safely back her, 
.^nd Modesty assume your air, 

And ne'er a ane mistak' her : 
And sic twa love-inspiring een 

Might fire even holy Palmers ; 
Nae wonder then they've fr.tal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 



I doubt na fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore. 

And band upon his breastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you, 

His lexicons and grammars; 
The feeling heart's the royal blue, 

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Some gapin' glo\\rin' countra laird, 

May warsle for your favour; 
May claw his lug, and straik his beard. 

And host up some palaver. 
My bonie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers. 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp 

Avva' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom. 
Inspires my muse to gie 'm his dues, 

For de'il a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

And fructify your amours, — 
And every year come in mair dear 

To you and Willie Chalmers. 





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REMORSE. 



TO JOHN TAYLOR. 



With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying, 
Through frosty hills the journey lay, 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker; 
To Vulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 



Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 
Threw by his coat and bonnet, 

And did Sol's business in a crack; 
Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye '^/'ulcan's sons of Wanluckhead, 

Pity my sad disaster; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod — 

ril pay you like my master. 




LINES WRriTEN ON A BANK-NOTE. 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf! 

Fell source o' a' my woe and grief! 

For lack o' thee Pve lost my lass ! 

For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass ! 

I see the children of affliction 

Unaided, thro' thy curs'd restriction. 

Pve seen the oppressor's cruel smile. 

Amid his hapless victim's spoil. 

For lack o' thee I leave this much-lov'd shorCj 

Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 

R. B. AJle. 

THE LOYAL NATIVES' VERSES. 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song. 
Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell pervade every throng, 
With Cracken the attorney, and Mundell the quack, 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack. 

These verses were handed over the table to Buriis at a cojivivial meeting, and ht 
tiorsed the subjoined reply : 

BURNS— EXTEMPORE. 

\v, true " Loyal Natives," attend to my song, 

In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; 

From envy and hatred your corps is exempt; 

But where is your shield from the darts of contempt? 

REMORSE. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comjiarison the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance, the mind 

Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine;" 




IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE} 



But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added — "Blame thy foolish self! ' 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen Remorse; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt — 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us. 
Nay, more, tliat very love their cause of ruin ! 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments. 
There's not a keener lash ! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime. 
Can reason down its agonizing throbs; 
And, after jirojier purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace? 
O, happy ! happy ! enviable man \ 
O glorious magnanimity of soul ! 

THK TOAD-EATER. 

What of earls with whom you have supt, 
And of dukes that you dined \\ith yestreen? 

Lord ! a louse. Sir, is still hut a louse, 

Though it crawl on the curls of a Queen. 



159 




TO 

Sir, 

Yours this moment I unseal, 

And faith I am gay and hearty ! 
To tell the truth an' shame the Ueil 

1 am as fu' as llartic : 



Mossgic', 1786. 

Ikit foorsday. Sir, my iiromise leal 

Expect me o' your ]iarty. 
If on a beastie T can sjieel. 

Or hurl in a cartie. R. B. 



"IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE." 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, 
Point out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear; 
Above that world on wings of love I rise, 
I know its worst — and can that worst despise. 
"Wrong'd, injur'd, shunn'd; unpitied, unredrest, 
The mock'd quotation of the scorner's jest." 
Let Prudence' direst bodenients on me fall, 
Clarinda, rich reward ! o'erpays them all ! 




"THOU(;iI FICKLE FORTUNE.' 

THOUt;i[ fickle h'ortune has deceiv'd me, 
She promis'd fair and perform'd but ill; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me. 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. — 




TAM THE CHAPMAN. 



act with prudence as far's I'm able, 
But if success I must never find, 
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 
I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. — 



"I BURN, I BURN." 

" I BURN, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn 

By driving winds the cracliling flames are borne," 

Now maddening, wild, I curse that fatal night ; 

Now bless the hour which charm'd my guilty sight. 

In vain the laws their feeble force oppose : 

Chain'd at his feet they groan, Love's vanquish'd foes 

In vain religion meets my sinking eye; 

I dare not combat ■ — but I turn and fly ; 

Conscience in vain upbraids th' unhallow'd fire; 

Love grasps his scorpions — stifled they expire ! 

Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne, 

Your dear idea reigns and reigns alone : 

Each thought intoxicated homage yields. 

And riots wanton in forbidden fields ! 

By all on high adoring mortals know ! 
By all the conscious villain fears below ! 
By your dear self! — the last great oath I swear; 
Nor life nor soul were ever half so dear ! 



EPIGRAM ON A NOTED COXCOMB. 

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast. 

His chicken heart so tender; 
But build a castle on his head, 

His skull will prop it under. 



TAM THE CHAPMAN. 

As Tarn the Chapman on a day 

Wi' Death forgather'd by the way, 

Weel pleas'd, he greets a wight sae famous. 

And Death was nae less pleased wi' Thomas, 

Wha cheerfully lays down the pack. 

And there blaws up a hearty crack ; 

His social, friendly, honest heart, 

Sae tickled Death they could na part : 

Sae after viewing knives and garters, 

Death takes him hame to gie him quarters. 





FRAGMENT. 



i6i 



• TO DR. MAXWELL, 

ON MISS JESSY STAIG's RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

Thai: merit I deny : 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An Angel could not die. 

FRAGMENT. 



Now health forsakes that angel face, 
Nae mair my dearie smiles; 

Pale sickness <\'ithers ilka grace, 
And a' my hopes beguiles. 



The cruel powers reject the prayer 

I hourly mak' for thee; 
Ye heavens, how great is my despair, 

How can I see him dee ! 



THERE'S NAETHIN LIKE THE HONEST NAPPY. 



There's naethin like the honest nappy 
Whaur'U ye e'er see men sae happy. 
Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy, 

'Tween morn an' morn. 
As them wha like to taste the drappie 

In glass or horn. 



I've seen me daez't upon a time; 
I scarce could wink or see a styme; 
Just ae hauf mutchkin does me prime, 

Ought less is little, 
Then back I rattle on the rhyme 

As gleg's a whittle ! 



PROLOGUE. 

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS, ON HIS BENEFIT-NIGHT, MONDAY, APRIL l6, I787. 

When by a generous public's kind acclaim. 
That dearest meed is granted — honest fame ; 
When here your favour is the actor's lot, 
Nor even the man in private life forgot ; 
What breast so dead to heav'nly virtue's glow. 
But heaves impassion'd with the grateful throe? 
Poor is the task to please a barb'rous throng, 
It needs no Siddons' power in Southern's song: 
But here an ancient nation, fam'd afar 
For genius, learning high, as great in war — 
Hail, Caledonia ! name for ever dear ! 
Before whose sons I'm honour'd to appear ! 
Where every science, every nobler art — 
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, 
Is known; as grateful nations oft have found, 
Far as the rude liarbarian marks the bound. 
Philosophy, no idle, pedant dream. 

Here holds her search, by heaven-taught Reason's beam; 
Here History paints with elegance and force. 
The tide of Empire's fluctuating course; 





l62 



NA TURE'S LA IV. 



Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan. 
And Harley rouses all the god in man. 
When well-form'd taste and sparkling wit unite, 
With manly love, or female beauty Ijright, 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace 
Can only charm us in the second place,') 
Witness my heart, how oft with panting fear, 
As on this night, I've met these judges here ! 
But still the hope Experience taught to live, 
Equal to judge — you're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet. 
With decency and law beneath his feet, 
Nor Insolence assumes fair Freedom's name; 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 

O Thou, dread Power ! whose empire-giving hand 
Has oft been stretch'd to shield the honour'd land, 
Strong may she glow with all her ancient hre; 
May every son be worthy of his sire ; 
Firm may she rise with generous disdain 
At Tyranny's, or direr Pleasure's chain; 
Still self-dependent in her native shore. 
Bold may she brave grim Danger's loudest roar, 
Till Fate the curtain drop on worlds to be no more. 



NATURE'S LAW. 



POEM Hl'MBLV INSCRIBED TO G. H., ESQ. 



Great nature spoke, observant man obeyed. 



Let other heroes boast their scars. 

The marks of sturt and strife : 
And other Poets sing of wars, 

The plagues of human life; 
Shame fa' the fun; wi' sword and gun 

To slap mankind like lumber ! 
I sing his name and nobler fame, 

Wha multiplies our number. 



Great Nature spoke, with air benign, 

" Go on, ye human race ! 
This lower world I you resign; 

Be fruitful and increase. 
The liquid fire of strong desire 

I've pour'd it in each bosom; 
Here, in this hand, does mankind stand, 

And there, is Beauty's blossom ! " 



Pope. 

I The Hero of these artless strains, 

A lowly Bard was he, 
I Who sung his rhymes in Coila's plains 
With meikle miith an' glee; 
Kind Nature's care had given his share, 

Large, of the flaming current; 
And, all devout, he never sought 
To stem the sacred torrent. 

He felt the powerful, high behest. 

Thrill, vital, thro' and thro'; 
And sought a correspondent breast, 

To give obedience due; 
Propitious Powers screen'd the young 
flow'rs, 

From mildews of abortion ; 
And lo ! the Bard, a great reward. 

Has got a double portion ! 




TRA GIC FRA GHENT. 



Auld, cantie Coil may count the day, 

As a.mual it returns, 
The third of Lil^ra's equal sway, 

That gave another Burns, 
With future rhymes, an' other times, 

To emulate his sire; 
To sing auld Coil in nobler style 

With more poetic fire. 



Ye Powers of peace, and peaceful son 

Look down with gracious eyes; 
And bless auld Coila, large and long. 

With multiplying joys. 
Long may she stand to prop the land 

The flow'r of ancient nations; 
And Burnses spring, her fame to sing 

To endless generations ! 




THE CATS LIKE KITCHEN. 



The cats like kitchen; 

The dogs like broo; 
The lasses like the lads weel. 

And th' auld wives too. 



CHORUS. 

And \\-e're a' noddin, 

Nid, nid, noddin, 
We're a' noddin fou at e'en. 



TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 

A harden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain, 

Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; 

And with sincere tho' unavailing sighs 

I view the helpless children of distress. 

With tears of indignation I behold th' oppressor 

Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction. 

Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. 

Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you; 

Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity; 

Ye poor, despis'd, abandon'd vagabonds. 

Whom Yice, as usual, has turn'd o'er to Ruin. 

but for kind, tho' ill-requited friends, 

1 had been driven forth like you forlorn, 

The most detested, worthless wretch among you ! 

O injur'd God ! Thy goodness has endovv'd me 

With talents passing most of my compeers, 

Which I in just proportion have abus'd. 

As far surpassing other common villains. 

As Thou in natural parts hadst given me more. 



EXTEMPORE. 



ON PASSING A lady's CARRLAGE. [mRS. MARIA RIDDEL'S.] 

If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue. 

Your speed will out-rival the dart : 
But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the road, 

If your stuff be as rotten's her heart. 



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Jx .XLlI 

J^ 164 FRAGMENTS. 


FRAG^ 

Ye hae lien a' wrang, lassie, 

Ye've lien a' wrang; 
Ye've lien in an unco bed, 

And \vi' a fremit man. 
ance ye danced upon the J:nowes, 

And ance ye lightly sang — 
But in herrying 0' a bee byke, 

I'm rad ye've got a stang. 


lENTS. J [ 

WAT ye what my minnie did, 
My minnie did, my minnie did, 

wat ye wat my minnie did. 
On Tysday 'teen to me, jo? 

She laid me in a saft bed, 

A saft bed, a saft bed, 
She laid me in a saft bed. 

And bade gudeen to me, jo. 

An' wat ye what the parson did, 

The parson did, the parson did, 
An' wat ye what the parson did, 

A' for a penny fee, jo? 
He loosed on me a lang man, 

A mickle man, a Strang man. 
He loosed on me a lang man. 

That might hae worried me, jo. 

An' I was but a young thing, 
A young thing, a young thing. 

An' I was but a young thing, 
Wi' nane to pity me, jo. 

1 wat the kirk was in the wyte. 

In the wyte, in the wyte. 
To pit a young thing in a fright. 
An' loose a man on me, jo. 


GIE my love brose, brose, 

Gie my love brose and butter; 
For nane in Carrick or Kyle 

Can please a lassie better. 
The lav'rock lo'es the grass, 

The muirhen lo'es the heather; 
But gie me a braw moonlight, 

And me and my love together. 


Lass, when your mither is frae hame, 

Might I but be sae bauld 
As come to your bower-window. 

And creep in frae the cauld, 
As come to your bower-window, 

And when it's cauld and wat, 
Warm me in thy sweet bosom ; 

Fair lass, wilt thou do that? 

Young man, gif ye should be sae kind, 

When our gudewife's frae hame, 
As come to my bower-window, 

Whare I am laid my lane. 
And warm thee in my bosom — 

But I will tell thee what. 
The way to me lies through the kirk; 

Young man, do you hear that? 


CAN ye labour lea, young man, 
An' can ye labour lea; 

Gae back the gate ye cam' again, 
Ye'se never scorn me. 

1 feed a man at Martinmas, 

Wi' arle pennies three; 

An' a' the faut I fan' wi' him. 

He couldna labour lea. 

The stibble rig is easy plough'd. 

The fallow land is free; 
But wha wad keep the handless coof, ^ ., 

That coudna labour lea? 


I MET a lass, a bonie lass. 

Coming o'er the braes 0' Couper, 
Bare her leg and bright her een, 
. And handsone ilka bit about her. 
'\ f> Weel I wat she was a quean 

Wad made a body's mouth to water; 
Our Mess John, wi' his lyart pow, 
His haly lips wad lickit at her. 


A 


%^^ . 


^4^ . 


' <. u>u^ 







EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. 



Jenny M'Ciaw, she has ta'en to the heather. 
Say, was it the covenant carried her thither; 
Jenny M'Craw to the mountain is gane, 
Their leagues and their covenants a' she has ta'en; 
My head and my heart, now quo' she, are at rest, 
And as for the lave, let the Deil do his best. 




The last braw bridal that I was at, 

'Twas on a Hallowmass day. 
And there was routh o' drink and fun. 

And mickle mirth and play. 
The bells they rang, and the carlins sang. 

And the dames danced in the ha'; 
The bride went to bed wi' the silly 
bridegroom. 

In the midst o' her kimmers a'. 



O Thou, in whom we live and move. 

Who mad'st the sea and shore; 
Thy goodness constantly we prove, 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please thee, Pow'r above, 

Still grant us with such store; 
The friend we trust, the fair we love, 

And we desire no more. 



Lord, we thank an' thee adore. 
For temp'ral gifts we little merit; 

At present we will ask no more. 
Let William Hyslop give the spirit. 



There came a piper out o' Fife, 
I watna what they ca'd him; 

He play'd our cousin Kate a spring. 
When tient a body bade him. 

And ay the raair he hotch'd an' blew, 
The mair that she forbade him. 



The black-headed eagle. 

As keen as a beagle, 
He hunted o'er height and owre howe, 

But fell in a trap 

On the braes o' Gemappe, 
E'en let him come out as he dowe. 



EPITAPH ON WILLIAM NICOL. 

Ye maggots feast on Nicol's brain, 
For few sic feasts ye've gotten; 

And fix your claws in Nicol's heart, 
For de'il a bit o't's rotten. 



ANSWER TO A POETICAL EPISTLE 



AUTHOK BY 



What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch, 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch? 
Losh, man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I didna suffer ha'f sae much 

Frae Daddie Auld. 



What the' at times when I grow croo 
I gi'e their wames a random pouse, 
Is that enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae mind your seam, ye prick-the-lousc, 

An' j.-»g-the-flae. 



-.t£. 



i66 



EXTEMPORE LINES. 



King David o' poetic brief, 

Wrought 'mangthe lasses such mischief 

As tiU'cl his after life wi' grief 

An' bloody rants, 
An' yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

O' lang-syne saunts. 

And maybe, Tarn, for a' my cants, 
My wicked rhymes, an' drucken rants, 
I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts 

An unco slip yet. 
An' snugly sit amang the saunts, 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs, the Sessions says I maun 

Gae fa' upo' anither plan, 

Than garren lasses cowp the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
And sairly thole their mither's ban 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on, to lell for sport. 
How I did wi' the Session sort — 
Auld Clinkum at the Inner port 

Cry'd three times, "Robin! 
Come hither, lad, an' answer for't, 

Ye're Wam'd for jobbin'." 

Wi' pinch I jnit a Sunday's face on. 
An' snoov'd awa' before the Session — 
I made an open fair confession, 

I scorn'd to lie; 
An' syne Mess John, beyond expression, 

Fell foul o' me. 



A furnicator-loun he call'd me. 

An' said my fau't frae bliss expeU'd me; 

I own'd the tale v^as true he tell'd me, 

"But what the matter?" 
Quo' I, " I fear unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 

"Geld you ! " (|uo'he," and whatfore no? 
If that your right hand, leg or toe, 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe. 

You shou'cl remember 
To cut it aff, an" whatfore no 

Your dearest member?" 

" Na, na," quo' I, " I'm no for that. 
Gelding's nae better than 'tis ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my faut, 

jV hearty flewit. 
As sair owre hip as ye can draw't, 

Tho' I should rue it. 

" Or gin ye like to end the bother, 
To please us a', I've just ae ither, 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather, 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gi'e her't a' thegither, 

An' let her guide it." 

But, Sir, this pleas'd them warst ava, 
An' therefore, Tam, when that I saw, 
I said, " Gude night," and cam awa, 

And left the Session; 
I saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 



EXTEMPORE LINES, 



IN ANSWER TO 



CARD FROM AN INTIMATE FRIEND OF BURNS, WISHING HIM 
TO SPEND AN HOUR AT A TAVERN. 



The King's most humble servant I, 
Can scarcely spare a minute; 

But I'll be wi' ye by an' bye; 
Or else the Deil's be in it. 



My bottle is my holy pool. 

That heals the wounds o' care an' dools 

And pleasure is a wanton trout, 

An' ye drink it, ye'U find him out. 



r^ 




THE HENPECKED HUSBAND. 



LINES 



WRITTEN EXTEMPORE I 
SISTER 



LADV S POCKET-BOOK. [^MISS KENNEDY, 
AW OF GAVIN HAMILTON.] 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give; 
Deal Freedom's sacred treasures free as air, 
Till slave and despot be but things which were. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 

Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life, 
The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife ! 
Who has no will but by her high permission; 
Who has not sixpence but in her possession; 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell; 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart : 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch. 



EPITAPH ON A HENPECK'D COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

As father Adam first was fool'd, 

A case that's still too common. 
Here lies a man a woman rul'd, 

The Devil rul'd the woman. 



EPIGRAM ON SAID OCCASION. 




O Death, hadst thou but spar'd his life 
Whom we, this day, lament ! 

We freely wad exchang'd the wife, 
And a' been weel content. 



Ev'n as he is, cauld in his graff, 
The swap we yet will do't; 

Take thou the carlin's carcase aff, 
Thou'se get the saul o' boot. 



ANOTHER. 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell. 
When depriv'd of her husband she loved so well, 
In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd her, 
She reduc'd him to dust and she drank up the powder. 

But (^ueen Netherplace, of a difPrent complexion, 
When call'd on to order the fun'ral direction, 
Would have eat her dead lord on a slender pretence, 
Not to shew her respect, but — to save the expense. 



jn: 




A TOAST. 



VERSES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. 



We came na here to view your warks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

It may be nae surprise. 



But when we tirl'd at your door. 
Your porter dought na hear us; 

Sae may, shou'd we to hell's yetts come. 
Your billy Satan sair us ! 



LINES 

ON BEING ASKED WHV GOD HAD MADE MISS DAVIES SO LITTLE 
AND MRS. * * * SO LARGE. 

Written on a Pane of Glass in the Inn at Moffat 

Ask why God made the gem so small, 

An' why so huge the granite? 
Because God meant mankind should set 

That higher value on it. 



EPIGRAM 



WRITTEN 



Whoe'er he be that sojourns here, 

I pity much his case. 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Gra:;e. 



There's naething here but Highland 
pride. 

And Highland scab and hunger; 
If Providence has sent me here, 

'Twas surely in his anger. 



A TOAST 



GIVKN AT A MEETING OF THE DUMFRIES-SHIRE VOLUNTEERS, HELD TO COMMEMORATE 
THE ANNIVERSARY OF RODNEV's VICTORY, APRIL I2TH, 1782. 

Instead of a Song, boys, I'll give you a Toast, — 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that we lost : 
That we lost, did I say? nay, by heav'n, that we found. 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes round. 
The next in succession, I'll give you the King, 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he swing ! 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitution, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution; 
And longer with Politics, not to be cramm'd. 
Be Anarchy curs'd, and Tyranny damn'd; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloyal. 
May his son be a hangman, and he his first trial ! 




p 



TO y. RANKINE. 



169 



SAID TO HA 
AYRSHIF 



LINES 

BEEN WRITTEN BY BURNS, WHILE ON HIS DEATH-BED, TO JOHN RANKINE, 
AND FORWARDED TO HIM IMMEDIATELY AFTER THE POET'S DECEASE. 

He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead ; 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head; 
Alas ! alas ! a devilish change indeed ! 



VERSES ADDRESSED TO J. RANKINE, 

ON H'S WRITING TO THE POET, THAT A GIRL IN THAT PART OF THE COUNTRY 
WAS WITH CHILD TO HIM. 



I AM a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, altho' not a'; 

Some people tell me gin I fa', 

Ae way or ither, 
The breaking of ae point, tho' sma', 

Breaks a' thegither. 



I hae been in for't ance or twice, 
And winna say owre far for thrice, 
Yet never met with that surprise 

That broke my rest. 
But now a rumour's like to rise, 

A whaup's i' the nest. 



ON SEEING THE BEAUTIFUL SEAT OF LORD GALLOWAY 

What dost thou in that mansion fair? 

Flit, Galloway, and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 



ON THE SAME. 



No Stewart art thou, Galloway, 
The Stewarts all were brave; 

Besides, the Stewarts were but fools, 
Not one of them a knave. 



ON THE SAME. 

Bright ran thy line, O Galloway, 
Thro' many a far-fam'd sire ! 

So ran the far-fam'd Roman way, 
So ended in a mire ! 



TO THE SAME. 

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS RESENTMENT. 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, 

In quiet let me live : 
I ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 




ON A SCHOOLMASTER. 






VERSES TO J. RANKINE. 



Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl, 
Was driving to the tither warl' 
A mixtie-maxtie motley squad. 
And monie a guilt- bespotted lad; 
Black gowns of each denomination. 
And thieves of every rank and station, 
From him that wears the star and garter 
To him that wintles in a halter; 
Asham'd himsel to see the wretches. 
He mutters, glowrin at the bitches, 



" By God I'll not be seen behint them. 
Nor 'mang the sp'ritual core present 

them. 
Without at least, ae honest man, 
To grace this damn'd infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
" Lord God ! " quoth he, " I have it now 
There's just the man I want, i' faith," 
And quickly stoppit Rankine's breath. 



EXTEMPORANEOUS EFFUSION, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching auld wives' barrels, 

Och, hon ! the day ! 
That clarty barm should stain my laurels; 

But — what'U ye say? 
These movin' things, ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes ! 



ON HEARING THAT THERE WAS FALSEHOOD IN THE 
REV. DR. B 'S VERY LOOKS. 

That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny; 
They say their master is a knave — 

And sure they do not lie. 



POVERTY. 

In politics if thou wouldst mix, 
And mean thy fortunes be; 

Bear this in mind, — be deaf and 
Let great folks hear and see. 



)lind, 



ON A SCHOOLMASTER 

IN CLEISH PARISH, FIFESHIRE. 

Here lie Willie Michie's banes; 

O Satan, when ye tak him, 
Gie him the schoolin' of your weans, 

For clever deils he'll mak them ! 




EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 



171 



LINES 



WRITTEN AND PRESENTED TO MRS. KEMBLE, ON SEEING HER IN THE CHARACTER 
OF VARICO IN THE DUMFRIES THEATRE, I794. 



Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief 

Of Moses and his rod; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief 

The rock with tears had flow'd. 



LINES. 



I MURDER hate by field or flood, 
Tho' glory's name may screen us; 

In wars at hame I'll spend my blood, 
Life-giving war of Venus. 



The deities that I adore 

Are social Peace and Plenty, 

I'm better pleased to make one more, 
Than be the death of twenty. 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW, AT THE KI; IG's ARMS TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 
'Gainst poor Excisemen? give the cause a hearing; 
What are your landlords' rent-rolls? taxing ledgers: 
What premiers, what? even Monarchs' mighty gaugers : 
Nay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise men? 
What are they, pray, but spiritual Excisemen? 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON THE WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, DUMFRIES. 

The graybeard. Old Wisdom, may boast of his treasures, 

Give me with gay Folly to live : 
I grant him his calm-blooded, time-settled pleasures, 

But Folly has raptures to give. 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 



TUNE- 



'Killiecrafikie. 



LORD ADVOCATE. 

He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist. 

He quoted and he hinted. 
Till in a declamation-mist. 

His argument he tint it : 
He gaped for't, he graped for't. 

He fand it was awa, man; 
But what his common sense came short. 

He eked out wi' law, man. 



MR. ERSKINE. 

Collected Harry stood awee, 

Then open'd out his arm, man; 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e. 

And ey'd the gathering storm, man : 
Like wind-driv'n hail it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a linn, man; 
The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, 

Ilalf-wauken'd wi' the din, man. 



# 



172 EPITAPH ON A COUNTRY LAIRD. 

LINES 

WRITTEN UNDER THE PICTURE OF MISS BURNS. [SEE PAGE 473.] 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing, 
Lovely Burns has charms — confess: 

True it is, she had one failing. 
Had a woman ever less? 

ON MISS J. SCOTT, OF AYR. 

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient t'lmes 
Been, Jeanie Scott, as thou art, ■ 
The bravest heart on English ground 
Had yielded like a coward. 



EPIGRAM ON CAPTAIN FRANCIS GROSE, 

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARY. 

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 

So whip ! at the summons, old Satan came flying; 

But when he approach'd where poor Francis lay moaning, 

And saw each bed-post with its burden a-groaning, 

Astonish'd ! confounded! cry'd Satan, " By God, 

I'll want 'im, ere I take such a damnable load." 



EPIGRAM ON ELPHINSTONE'S TRANSLATION OF 
MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. 

O THOU whom Poetry abhors, 
Whom Prose had turned out of doors, 
Heard'st thou yon groan? — proceed no further, 
'Twas laurel'd Martial calling murther. 



EPITAPH ON A COUNTRY LAIRD, 

NOT QUITE HO WISE AS SOLOMON. 

Bless Jesus Christ, O Cardoness, 

With grateful lifted eyes. 
Who said that not the soul alone, 

But body too, must rise : 
For had he said, " The soul alone 

From death I will deliver," 
Alas, alas ! O Cardoness, 

Then thou hadst slept for ever ! 





A BARD'S EPITAPH. 



n 



EPITAPH ON A NOISY POLEMIC. 

Below thir stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O Death, it's my opinion, 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin' bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 



EPITAPH ON WEE JOHNNY. 

Hie jacet wee Johtmy. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know 

That death has murdcr'd Johnnie ! 
An' here his body lies fu' low 

For saul he ne'er had ony. 

EPITAPH ON A CELEBRATED RULING ELDER. 

Here souter Hood in Death does sleep; 

To Hell, if he's gane thither, 
Satan, gie him thy gear to keep, 

He'll baud it weel thegither. 

EPITAPH FOR ROBERT AIKEN, ESQ. 

Know thou, O stra..ger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name, 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 



EPITAPH FOR GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ. 

The Poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps. 
Whom canting wretches blam'd : 

But with such as he, where'er he be. 
May I be sav'd or damn'd ! 



A BARD'S EPITAPH. 



Is there a whim-inspired fool, 

Owre fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 

Owie blate to seek, owre proud to snool, 

Let him draw near; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool. 

And drap a tear. 




Is there a Bard of rustic song. 

Who, noteless, steals the crowds among. 

That weekly this area throng, 

O, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong, 

Here, heave a sigh. 




^^SQ 



174 



EPITAPH ON A V/AG. 



Is there a man whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career. 

Wild as the wave ; 
Here pause — and, thro' the starting tear, 

Survey thi> grave. 

The poor Inhalntant below 

Was quick to learn and wise to know, 

And keenly felt the friendly glow, 



And softer flame. 
But thoughtless follies laid him low , 
And stain'd his name : 

Reader, attend — whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole. 
Or darkling grubs this earthly hcl,, 

In low pursuit; 
Know, prudent, cautious self-coniroi. 

Is wisdom's root. 



EPITAPH ON MY FATHER. 

O YE, whose cheek the tear of pity stains, 
Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 

Here lie the loving husband's dear remains, 
The tender father, and the gen'rous friend. 

The pitying heart that felt for human woe; 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human pride, 
The friend of man, to vice alone a foe; 

" P^or ev'n his failings lean'd to virtue's side." 



EPITAPH ON JOHN DOVE, 



INNKEEPER, 



Here lies Johnny Pidgeon; 

What was his religion? 

Wha e'er desires to ken, 

To some other warl' 

Maun follow the carl, 

For here Johnny Pidgeon had nane 



Strong ale was ablution, — 
Small beer persecution, 
A dram was meme:ito mori; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the saving his soul, 
And port was celestial glory. 



EPITAPH ON JOHN BUSHBY, 

WRITER, IN DUMFRIES. 

Here lies John Bushby, honest man ! 
Cheat him. Devil, if you can. 




EPITAPH ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 



Lament him, Mauchline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye; 
For had ye staid whole weeks awa, 

\'our wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. 



Ye Mauchline bairns, as on ye pass 
To school in liands thegither, 

O tread ye lightly on his grass. 
Perhaps he was your father 





GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 




EPITAPH ON A PERSON NICKNAMED "THE MARQUIS^ 

WHO DESIRED BURNS TO WRITE ONE ON HIM. 

Here lies a mock Marquis whose titles were shamm'd, 
If ever he rise, it will be to be damn'd. 

EPITAPH ON WALTER R [RIDDEL]. 

Sic a reptile was Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave, 
That the worms ev'n damn'd him 

When laid in his grave. 
"In his flesh there's a famine," 

A starv'd reptile cries; 
" An' his heart is rank poison," 

Another replies. 

ON HIMSELF. 

Here comes Burns 

On Rosinante ; 
She's d poor. 

But he's d canty ! 

GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 
O Lord, when hunger pinches sore. 

Do thou stand us in need. 
And send us from thy bounteous store, 

A tup or wether head ! Amen. 

ON COMMISSARY GOLDIE'S BRAINS. 

Lord, to account who dares thee call, 

Or e'er dispute thy pleasure? 
Else why within so thick a wall 

Enclose so poor a treasure? 

IMPROMPTU 

ON AN INNKEEPER NAMED BACON WHO INTRUDED HIMSELF INTO ALL COMPANIE* 

At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer, 
And plenty of bacon each day in the year ; 
We've all things that's nice, and mostly in season. 
But why always Bacon — come, give me a reason? 

ADDRESSED TO A LADY 

WHOM THE AUTHOR FEARED HE HAD OFFENDED. 



RusTlClT\''s ungainly form 
May cloud the highest mind; 

But when the heart is nobly warm. 
The good excuse will find. 



Propriety's cold cautious rules 
Warm fervour may o'erlook; 

But spare poor sensibility 
The ungentle, harsh rebuke. 



^ 



-^- 




76 



ON MR. M'MURDO. 



EPIGRAM. 

When , deceased, to the devil went down, 

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own crown; 
"Thy fool's head," quoth Satan, " that crown shall wear never, 
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so clever." 




LINES INSCRIBED ON A PLATTER. 



My blessing on ye, honest wife, 

I ne'er was here before : 
Ye've wealth o' gear for spoon and 
knife — 

Heart could not wish for more. 



Heaven keep you clear of sturt and 
strife. 

Till far ayont four score, 
And by the Lord o' death and life, 

I'll ne'er gae by your door ! 



TO 



Your billet, sir, I grant receipt; 

Wi' you I'll canter ony gate, 

Though 'twere a trip to yon blue warl', 
Whare birkies march on burning marl : 
Then, sir, God willing, I'll attend ye, 
And to his goodness I commend ye. 

K. Burns. 



ON MR. M'MURDO. 

Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day, 
No envious cloud o'ercast his evening ray; 
No wrinkle furrow'd by the hand of care. 
Nor even sorrow add one silver hair !' 
Oh, may no son the father's honour stain. 
Nor ever daughter give the mother pain. 



TO A LADY 

WHO WAS LOOKING UP THE TEXT DURING SERMON. 

Fair maid, you need not take the hint, 

Nor idle texts pursue : 
^Tvizs, guilty sinners that he meant — 

Not angels such as you ! 



I^= 



IMPROMPTU. 

How daur ye ca' me howlet-faced, 
Ye ugly, glowering spectre ? 

My face was but the keekin' glass. 
An' there ye saw your picture. 




TO A PAINTER. 



TO MR. mackp:nzir, surgeon, mauchline 



Friday first 's the day appointed 
By the Right Worshipful anointed, 

To hold our grand procession; 
To get a blad o' Johnie's morals, 
And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrels 

r the way of our profession. 

The Master and the Brotherhood 
Would a' be glad to see you; 




For me I would be niair than proud 
To share the mercies wi' you. 
It Death, then, wi' skaith, then, 
Some mortal heart is hechtin'. 
Inform him, and storm him, 

That Saturday you'll fetcht him. 

ROUEKT ^iUUNS. 

Mossg^icl, A n. M. 5790. 



TO A PAINTER. 



Dear , I'll gie ye some advice 

You'll tak it no uncivil : 
You shouldna paint at angels mair, 

But try and paint the devil. 



To paint an angel's kittle vvark, 
Wi' auld Nick there's less danger-, 

You'll easy draw a weel-kent face, 
But no sae weel a stranger. 



LINES WRITTEN ON A TUMBLER. 



You're welcome, Willie Stewart; 

You're welcome, Willie Stewart; 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in 
May, 

That's half sae welcome's thou art. 

Come, bumpers high, express your joy, 
The bowl we maun renew it; 



The tappit-hen, gae bring her ben. 
To welcome Willie Stewart. 

May foes be Strang, and friends be 
slack. 

Ilk action may he rue it; 
May woman on him turn her back. 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart ! 



ON MR. W. CRUIKSHANK 

OF THE HIGH .SCHOOL, EDINBURGH. 

Honest Will to heaven is gane, 
And mony shall lament him; 

His faults they a' in Latin lay, 
In English nane e'er kent them. 




;t£. 



H 



SONGS. 



THE LASS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 



■ Miss Fnrbes's Farewell to Banjf, or F.ttrick Banks. 



TwAS even — the dewy fields were 
green, 

On every blade the pearls hang; 
The Zephyrs wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang : 
In every glen the Mavis sang, 

All nature listening seem'd the while: 
Except where green-wood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

With careless step I onward stray'd, 

My heart rejoic'd in nature's joy, 
When musing in a lonely glade, 

A maiden fair I chanc'd to spy; 
Her look was like the morning's eye, 

Her hair like nature's vernal smile. 
Perfection whisper'd passing by. 

Behold the lass o' Ballochmyle ! 

I'air is the morn in flowery May, 
And sweet is night in Autumn mild. 

When roving thro' the garden gay, 
Or -wandering in a lonely wild : 



But Woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all hercharms she does compile; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd 

By the honie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

O, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain, 
The' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain ! 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain. 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. 

Thenpridemight climb theslipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine; 
Give me the cot below the pine. 

To tend the flocks or till the soil, 
And every day have joys divine, 

With the bonie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



SONG OF DEATH. 




A GAELIC AIR. 

JCEWE. — A yield of battle. Time of the day — Evening. The luounded and dying of the 
victoriotts army are supposed to join in the song. 

Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies. 

Now gay with the broad setting sun ! 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties. 

Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy foe, 

Go, frighten the coward and slave ! 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell Tyrant ! but know. 

No terrors hast thou for the brave ! 





BiiAKS o' Ballocm-MYLE. — Page 178. 




AULD ROB MORRIS. 



179 



Thou strik'st the dull peasant — he sinks in the dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a name : 
Thou strik'st the young hero — a glorious mark ! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour — our swords in our hands, 

Our King and our Country to save — 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

O ! who would not die with the brave ! 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE O. 



When o'er the hill the eastern star 

Tells bughtin-tinie is near, my jo; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field 

Return sae do\\f and wearie O; 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

Wi' dew are hanging clear, my io, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig. 

My ain kind dearie O. 

In mirkest glen, at midnight hour, 
I'd rove, and ne'er be eerie O, 

If thro' that glen I gaed to thee. 
My ain kind dearie O. 



Altho' the night were ne'er sae wild. 
And I were ne'er sae wearie O, 

I'd meet thee on the lea-rig. 
My ain kind dearie O. 

The hunter lo'es the morning sun. 

To rouse the mountain deer, my jo; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen. 

Along the burn to steer, my jo; 
Gie me the hour o' gloamin gray. 

It maks my heart sae cheery O 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O. 



Jl 



AULD ROB MORRIS. 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen. 
He's the king o' gude fellows and wale of auld men; 
He has gowd in his coffers, he has owsen and kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May ; 
She's sw eet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blythe and as artless as the lamb on the lea. 
And dear to my heart as the light to my ee. 

But oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and yard; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be my dead. 

The day comes to me, but delight brings me nane ; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane : 
I wander my lane, like a night-troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my breast. 

had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hop'd she wad smil'd upon me; 
O how past descriving had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no words can express ! 





i8o 



DUNCAN GRAY. 



NAEBODY. 

I HAE a wife o' my ain, 
rU partake wi' naebody; 

I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 

I hae a penny to spend, 

There — thanks to naebody; 

I hae nothing to lend, 
I'll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody's lord, 

I'll be slave to naebody; 

I hae a guid braid sword, 
I'll tak dunts frae naebody. 

I'll be merry and free, 
I'll be sad for naebody; 

If naebody care for me, 
I'll care for naebody. 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME 

WEE THING. 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer, 

And neist my heart I'll wear her. 

For fear my jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing. 
She is a bonie wee thing. 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 

The warld's wrack, we share o't, 
The warstle and the care o't; 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it. 
And think my lot divine. 

DUNCAN GRAY. 

Duncan Gray came here to woo. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

On blythe yule night when we were fou. 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



Maggie coost her head fu high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh; 
Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

Duncan fleech'd, and Duncan pray'd; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin o'er a linn; 

Ha, ha, >.\:c. 

Time and chance are but a tide. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Slighted love is sair to bide. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he. 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may gae to — France for me ! 

Ha, ha, &c. 

How it comes let doctors tell. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg grew sick • — as he grew well. 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings; 
And O, her een, they spak sic things ! 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Duncan was a lad o' grace, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan couldna be her death. 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath; 
Now they're crouse and cantie baith ! 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 

O POORTITH. 

Tune — " / had a horse." 
O POORTITH cauld, and restless love. 

Ye wreck my peace between ye; 
Yet poortith a' I could forgive. 
An' 'twerena for my Jeanie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining? 
Or why sae sweet a flower as love 
Depend 0:1 Fortune's shining? 




- 




-ITI M ' . <^ ^ i~^ 


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A cH s 


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' 


-1^ OFEA^ THE DOOR TO ME. OH! l8l - 








This warld's wealth when I think on, 


Altho' his daddie was nae laird. 




It's pride, and a' the lave o't; 


And tho' I hae nae meikle tocher; 








Fie, fie on silly coward man, 


Yet rich in kindest, truest love. 






' 


That he should be the slave o't. 


We'll tent our flocks by Galla Water. "^ 


^ 






O why, &c. 


It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth, 






Her een sae bonie blue betray 


That coft contentment, peace or pleas- 






How she repays my passion; 

But prudence is her o'erword aye, 

She talks of rank and fashion. 


ure; 
The bands and bliss o' mutual love, 
that's the chiefest warld's treasure ; 






why, &c. 


LORD GREGORY. 






O wha can prudence think upon, 


O MIRK, mirk is this midnight hour, 






And sic a lassie by him? 


And loud the tempest's roar; 






wha can prudence think upon. 


A waefu' wanderer seeks thy tow'r, 






And sae in love as I am ? 
O why, &c. 


Lord Gregory, ope thy door. 






An exile, frae her father's ha', 






How blest the humble cotter's fate ! 


And a' for loving thee; 






He woos his simple dearie; 


At least some pity on me shaw, 






The silly bogles, wealth and state, 


If love it mayna be. 






Can never make them eerie. 

why should fate sic pleasure have. 


Lord Gregory, mind'stthounot the grove, 

By bonie Irwine side. 
Where first I own'd that virgin-love. 






Life's dearest bands untwining? 






Or why see sweet a flower as love 


I lang, lang had denied? 






Depend on Fortune's shining? 


How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 






GALLA WATER. 


Thou wad for aye be mine ! 
And my fond heart, itsel sae true, 






There's braw braw lads on Yarrow 


It ne'er mistrusted thine. 






braes, 








That wander thro' the blooming 


Hard is thy heart. Lord Gregory, 






heather ; 


And flinty is thy breast : 






But Yarrow braes nor Ettrick shaws 


Thou dart of heaven that flashest by, 






Can match the lads o' Galla Water. 


O wilt thou give me rest ! 






But there is ane, a secret ane, 


Ye mustering thunders from above, 






Aboon them a' I lo'e him Ijetter ; 


Your willing victim see ! 






And I'll be his, and he'll be mine. 


But spare, and pardon my fause love. 






The bonie lad o' Galla Water. 


His wrangs to heaven and me ! 






OPEN THE DOC 


R TO ME, OH! 






. ' WITH ALT 


ORATIONS. 








1^ 

Oh, open the door, some 
O, open the door to m 

Tho' thou hast been false 
Oh, open the door to i 


pity to shew, 
e. Oh ! 

, I'll ever prove true, 
ne. Oh ! 






[ 


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JESSIE. 

Caiilcl is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, Oh ! 
The frost that freezes the life at my heart. 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! 

The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me. Oh ! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them, nor thee, Oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain. Oh ! 
My true love, she cried, and sank down by his side. 

Never to rise again. Oh ! 



MEG O' THE MILL. 

Air — " O, botiic Lass, iv ill yon lie in a Barrack.^' 

O KEN ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten, 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller. 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller. 

The Miller was strappin, the Miller was ruddy> 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady; 
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit Ivuurl; 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 

The Miller he hecht her a heart leal and loving; 
The Laird did address her wi' matter mair moving, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonie side-saddle. 

O wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; 
And wae on the love that is fix'd on a mailen I 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. 
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the warl ! 



JESSIE. 

Tune — " Bonie Dundee." 

TRUE-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the Yarrow, 

And fair are the maids on the banks o' the Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Nith's winding river. 

Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair : 
To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over ; 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain; 
Grace, beauty, and elegance, fetter her lover, 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 



LOG AN BRAES. 




O, fresli is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close; 
But in the fair presence o' lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; 

Enthron'd in her een he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger! 

Her modest demeanour's the jewel of a'. 



WANDERING WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Here awa, there awa, baud awa hame; 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, 

Tell me thou bring'st me ray Willie the same. 

W^inter winds blew loud and cauld at our parting. 
Fears for my Willie brought tears in my ee; 

Welcome now simmer, and welcome my Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me ! 

Rest, ye wild storms, in the cave of your slumbers; 

How your dread howling a lover alarms ! 
Wauken, ye breezes, row gently, ye billows, 

And waft my dear laddie ance mair to my arms. 

But oh, if he's faithless, and minds na his Nannie, 
Flow still between us, thou wide-roaring main; 

May I never see it, may I never trow it, 

But, dying, believe that my Willie's my ain. 



O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
That day I was my Willie's bride; 
And years sinsyne hae o'er us run. 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thy flow'ry l)anks appear 
Like drumlie winter, dark and drear. 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
P\'ir, far frae me and Logan Braes. 

jVgain the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay; 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers. 
The bees hum round the breathinc 

flowers; 
Blithe morning lifts his rosy eye. 
And evening's tears are tears of joy : 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 



LOGAN BRAES. 

Tune — " Logan Water." 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 



^ 



T^- 



Amang her nestlings, sits the thrush; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil. 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer, 
Pass widow'd nights and joyless days, 
While Willie's far frae Logan Braes. 



O wae upon you, men o' state. 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate ! 
As ye mak monie a fond heart mourn, 
Sae may it on your heads return ! 
How can your flinty hearts enjoy 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cry? 
But soon may peace bring happy days. 
And Willie hame to Logan Braes ! 





PHILUS THE FAIR. 



THERE WAS A LASS. 

Tune — " Botiie Jean." 
There was a lass, and she was fair, 

At kirk and market to be seen, 
When a' the fairest maids were met, 

The fairest maid was bonie Jean. 

And ay she wrought her mammie's wark. 
And ay she sang sae merrily : 

The blythest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender joys 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Robie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen, sheep and kye, 
And wanton naigies nine or ten. 

He gaed \vi' Jeanie to the tryste. 
He danc'd wi' Jeanie on the down; 

And lang ere witless Jeanie wist. 

Her heart was tint, her peace was 
stovvn. 

As in the bosom o' the stream 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en ; 

So trembling, pure, was tender love, 
Within the breast o' bonie Jean. 

And now she works her mammie's wark, 
And aye she sighs wi' care and pain; 

Yet wistna what her ail might be. 
Or what wad make her weel again. 

But didna Jeanie's heart loup light. 
And didna joy blink in her ee, 

A.S Robie taukl a tale o' love, 
.\e e'enin on the lily lea? 

The sun was sinking in the west. 
The birds sang sweet in ilka grove; 

His cheek to hers he fondly prest. 
And whisper'd thus his tale o' love : 

O Jeanie fair, I lo'e thee dear; 

O canst thou think to fancy me? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot. 

And learn to tent the farms wi' me? 



At barn or byre thou shaltna drudge. 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray amang the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving corn wi' me. 

Now what could artless Jeanie do? 

She had nae will to say him na : 
At length she blush'd a sweet consent. 

And love was ay between them twa. 

PHILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune — " Robin Adair." 

While larks with little wing 

Fann'd the pure air. 
Tasting the breathing spring. 

Forth 1 did fare : 
Gay the sun's golden eye 
Peep'd o'er the mountains high; 
Such thy morn ! did I cry, 

Phillis the fair. 

In each bird's careless song 

Glad did I share; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there : 
Sweet to the opening day. 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray: 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair. 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were, 
I mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare : 
So kind may Fortune be. 
Such make his destiny. 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair. 

BY ALLAN STREAM. 

TvtiK — " Allan Water." 
By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove, 

While Phcebus sank beyond Benleddi; 
The winds were whispering thro' the 
grove, 
The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I listen'd to a lover's sang. 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures 
monie ; 
And ay the wild wood echoes rang — 
O, dearly do I love thee, Annie ! 





WHISTLE, AND TLL COME TO YOU, AIY LAD. 



O, happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle niak it eerie; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the hour, 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She,sinking,said"rm thineforever !" 
While monie a kiss the seal imprest, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 



The haunt o' spring's the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow; 
How cheery thro' her shortening day 

Is autumn, in her weeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart. 

Or chain thesoulinspeechless pleasure. 
Or, thro' each nerve the rapture dart, 

Likemeetingher,ourl)osom'streasure? 




HAD I A CAVE. 

Tune — " Robin Adair." 
Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore. 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing roar; 
There would I weep my woes. 
There seek my lost repose, 
Till grief my eyes should close. 
Ne'er to wake more. 

Falsest of womankind, canst thou declare 
All thy fond plighted vows — fleeting as air? 

To thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thy perjury. 

Then in thy bosom try. 
What peace is there ! 

WHISTLE, AND I'LL COME TO YOU, MY LAD. 

■ Tune — " My Jo, Janet.'" 
O WHISTLE, and I'll come to you, my lad; 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad : 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad. 

But warily tent, when ye come to court me. 
And come na unless the black-yett be a-jee;. 
Syne up the back-stile, and let naebody see, 
And come as ye were na comin to me. 
And come, &c. 

O whistle, &c. 

At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye car'd' na a flie : 
But steal me a blink o' your bonie black ee, 
Yet look as ye were na lookin at me. 
Yet look, (Sic. 

O whistle, &c. 

Ay vow and protest that ye care na for me. 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court na anither, tho' jokin ye be. 
For fear that she wyle your fancy frae me. 
For fear, &c. 

O whistle, &c. 



^ 



# 



i86 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 



HUSBAND, HUSBAND, CEASE 
YOUR STRIFE. 

Tune — " My Jo, Janet." 
Husband, husband, cease your strife. 

Nor longer idly rave, sir; 
Tho' I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slave, sir. 

" One of two must still obey, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Is it man or woman, say. 

My spouse, Nancy? " 

If 'tis still the lordly word. 

Service and obedience; 
I'll desert my sov'reign lord, 

And so good-bye allegiance ! 

" Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy, Nancy ! 
Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it: 
When you lay me in the dust. 

Think, think how you will bear it. 

" I will hope and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Strength to bear it will be given. 

My spouse, Nancy." 

Well, sir, from the silent dead 

Still I'll try to daunt you; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites shall haunt you. 

" I'll wed another, like my dear 

Nancy, Nancy; 
Then all hell will fly for fear. 

My spouse, Nancy." 

DELUDED SWAIN. 

TuN'E — " The Collier's Dochter." 

Deluded swain, the pleasure 
The fickle Fair can give thee, 

Is but a fairy treasure, 

Tky hopes will soon deceive thee. 




The billows on the ocean 

The breezes idly roamin 
The clouds' uncertain motion. 

They are but types of woman. 

! art thou not ashamed 
To doat upon a feature? 

If man thou wouldst be named, 
Despise the silly creature. 

Go, find an honest fellow; 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow. 

And then to bed in glory. 

SONG. 

Tune — " The Quaker's Wife." 
Thine am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy; 
Ev'ry pulse along my veins, 

Ev'ry roving fancy. 

To thy bosom lay my heart. 
There to throb and languish : 

Tho' despair had wrung its core 
That would heal its anguish. 

Take away those rosy lips. 
Rich with balmy treasure ! 

Turn away thine eyes of love, 
Lest I die with pleasure ! 

What is life \\'hen wanting love? 

Night without a morning ! 
Love's the cloudless summer sun. 

Nature gay adorning. 

WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE ? 

A NEW SCOTS SONG. 

Tune—" The Suior's Dochter." 
Wilt thou be my dearie? 
When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart 
Wilt thou let me cheer thee? 
By the treasure of my soul, 
That's the love I bear thee ! 

1 swear and vow that only thou 
Shalt ever be my dearie — 
Only thou, I swear and vow, 
Shalt ever be my dearie. 




HARK! THE MA VIS. 



Lassie, say thou lo'es me ; 
Or if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Say na thou'lt refuse me : 
If it vvinna, canna be, 
Thou for thine may choose me. 
Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me — 
Lassie, let me quickly die. 
Trusting that thou lo'es me. 

BANKS OF CREE. 

Tune — " The Flowers of Edinburgh." 

Hf.kk is the glen, and here the bower. 
All uiiilerneath the birchen shade; 

The villai^e-bell has toU'd the hour, 
() what can stay my lovely maid? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call; 

'Tis but the balmy breathing C^le, 
Mixt with some warbler's dying fall, 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 

It is Maria's voice I hear ! 

So calls the woodlark in the grove 
His little faithful mate to cheer. 

At once 'tis music — and 'tis love. 

And art thou come? and art thou true? 

O welcome, dear, to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew. 

Along the flow'ry banks of Cree. 

ON THE SEAS AND FAR 
AWAY. 

Tune — " O'er the Hills and far aivay." 
How can my poor heart be glad. 
When absent from my Sailor lad? 
How can I the thought forego. 
He's on the seas to meet the foe? 
Let me wander, let me rove. 
Still my heart is with my love ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away. 
On stormy seas and far away; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day 
Are aye with him that's far away. 




When in summer's noon I faint. 
As weary flocks around me pant. 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My Sailor's thund'ring at his gun : 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
Bullets, spare my darling boy ! 
Fate, do with me what you may, 
Spare but him that's far away ! 
On the seas, &c. 

At the starless midnight hour. 

When winter rules with boundless 

power; 
As the storms th(-; forest tear. 
And thunders rend the howling air, 
Listening to the doubling roar, 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All I can — I weep and pray, 
For his weal that's far away. 
On the seas, &c. 

Peace, thy olive wand extend. 
And bid wild War his ravage end, 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven with prosp'rous gales 
Fill my Sailor's welcome sails. 
To my arms their charge convey, 
My dear lad that's far away. 
On the seas, &c. 



HARK! THE MAVIS. 

NE — " Ca' the Yo'ives to the Knoives.' 



Ca' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them where the burnie rows. 
My bonie dearie. 

Hark ! the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Clouden's woods amang, 
Then a faulding let us gang. 
My bonie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 

We'll gae down by Clouden side. 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the, &c. 













A 


-fn^-i ' . 


' ^^1 h 


\ 






u (^L; 




[ 


Y 


^ 






'. 1 88 HOW LANG AND DRRARY. '. 


-- 




Yonder Clouden's silent towers. 


Let others love the city. 






Where at moonshine midnight hours. 


And gaudy show at sunny noon; 










O'er the dewy-bending flowers, 


t;ie me the lonely valley. 








^ 


^ Fairies dance sae cheery. 


The dewy eve, and rising moon '^ 


^ 






Ca' the, &c. 


Fair beaming, and streaming 






Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear; 
Thou'rt to love and Heaven sae dear, 
Nocht of ill may come thee near, 


Her silver light the boughs amang; 
While falling, recalling. 

The amorous thrush concludes his 












My bonie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 


There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 






By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 






Fair and lovely as thou art, 


And hear my vows o' truth and love. 






Thou hast stown my very heart; 


And say thou lo'es me best of a' ? 






I can die — but canna part. 








My bonie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 


HOW LANG AND DREARY. 






Tune-" Ca„ld Kail in Aberdeen." 






While waters wimple to the sea ; 


How lang and dreary is the night. 






While day blinks in the lift sae hie; 


When 1 am frae my dearie; 






Till clay-cauld death shall blin' my ee, 


I restless lie frae e'en to morn. 






Ye shall be my dearie. 


Tho' I were ne'er sae weary. 






Ca' the, &c. 








« 


CHORUS. 






SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME 


For oh, her lanely nights are lang; 






BEST OF A'. 


And oh, her dreams are eerie; 
And oh, her vvidow'd heart is sair, 






Tune—" Onagh's Water-fall.'" 


That's absent frae her dearie. 






Sae flaxen were her ringlets, 








Her eyebrows of a darker hue. 


When I think on the lightsome days 






Bewitchingly o'erarching 


I spent wi' thee, my dearie. 






Tvva laughing een o' bonie blue. 


And now that seas between us roar. 






Her smiling, sae wyling. 


How can I be but eerie ! 






Wad make a wretch forget his woe; 


For oh, &c. 






What pleasure, what treasure. 








Unto these rosy lips to grow ! 


How slow ye move, ye heavy hours; 






Such was my Chloris' bonie face. 


The joyless day how drearie ! 






When first her bonie face I saw, 


It wasna sae ye glinted by. 






And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 


When I was wi' my dearie. 






She says she lo'es me best of a'. 


For oh, &c. 






Like harmony her motion; 








Her pretty ancle is a spy 


THE LOVER'S MORNING 






Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad make a saint forget the sky; 


SALUTE TO HIS MISTRESS. 






Sae warmmg, sae charmmg, 


Tune— " Deil tak the Wars." 






Her faultless form and gracefu' air; 


Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest 






Ilk feature — auld Nature 


creature! 






1 


„ Declar'd that she could do nae mair : 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law ; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 


Rosy morn now lifts his eye, j. 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 
Waters wi' the tears o' joy : 
Now thro' the leafy woods. 


? 






^ 


She says she lo'es me best of a'. 


And by the reeking floods, 


^ 






y 


l^n 1 .Lj^ 













^ 



FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. 



Wild Nature's tenants freely, gladly 
stray : 
The lintwhite in his bower 
Chants o'er the breathing flower; 
The lav'rock to the sky 
Ascends wi' sangs o' joy, 
While the sun and thou arise to bless 
the day. 

Phcebus, gliding the brow o' morning, 
Banishes ilk darksome shade, 

Nature gladdening and adorning; 
Such to me my lovely maid. 
When absent frae my fair. 
The murky shades o' care 

With starless gloom o'ercast my sullen 
. sky: 
But when, in beauty's light. 
She meets my ravish'd sight. 
When thro' my very heart 
Her beaming glories dart — 

'Tis then I wake to life, to light, and joy. 

LASSIE Wr THE LINT- 
WHITE LOCKS. 

Tune — " Rothiemnrchtis' s Ra7it." 

CHORUS. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? 
Wilt thou be my dearie O? 

Now nature deeds the flowery lea. 
And a' is young and sweet like thee; 
O wilt thou share its joys wi' me. 
And say thou'U be my dearie O? 
Lassie wi', &c. 

And v/hen the welcome simmer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower. 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower 
At sultry noon, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 

When Cynthia lights, \\i' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way, 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 
And talk o' love, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi', &c. 



And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 
ni comfort thee, my dearie O. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 

Bonie lassie, artless lassie. 
Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks? 
Wilt thou be my dearie O? 



THE AULD MAN. 

Tune — " The Death of the Ltntiet." 

But lately seen in gladsome green 

The woods rejoic'd the day. 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing 
flowers 

In double pride were gay : 
But now our joys are fled, 

On winter blasts awa ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array. 

Again shall bring them a'. 



But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age; 
My trunk of eild, but buss or bield. 

Sinks in time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days. 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why com'st thou not again? 



FAREWELL, THOU STREAM. 

Tune — " Nancy's to the Greenwood gane." 

Farewell, thou stream that winding 
flows 

Around Eliza's dwelling ! 
O Mem'ry ! spare the cruel throes 

Within my bosom swelling : 
Condemn'd to drag a hopeless chain. 

And yet in secret languish. 
To feel a fire in ev'ry vein, 

Nor dare disclose my anguish. 

Love's veriest wretch, unseen, unknown, 
I fain my griefs would cover : 

The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, 
Betray the hapless lover. 




CONTENTED WP LITTLE. 



I know thou doom'st me to despair, 
Nor wilt nor canst relieve me; 

But oh, Eliza, hear one prayer, 
For pity's sake forgive me ! 

The music of thy voice I heard. 
Nor wist while it enslav'd me; 



I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd 
Till fears no more had sav'd mc : 

Th' unwary sailor thus aghast, 
The wheeling torrent viewing, 

'Mid circling horrors sinks at last 
In overwhelming ruin. 




CONTENTED VVF LITTLE. 

Tune — " Lumps o' pudding." 
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' mair. 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
I gie them a skelp as they're creepin' alang, 
Wi' a cog o' gude swats, and an auld Scottish sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome thought; 

But man is a soger, and life is a faught : 

My mirth and gude humour are coin in my pouch. 

And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch dare touch. 

A towmond o' trouble, should that be my fa', 
A night o' gude fellowship sowthers it a' ; 
When at the blythe end of our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has past? 

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her way, 
Be't to me, be't frae me, e'en let the jad gae : 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or pain, 
My warst word is — " Welcome, and welcome again ! " 



MY NANNIE'S AWA. 

Tune — " There'll never be peace till yatiiic comes hamc," 
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays. 
And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the braes. 
While birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw; 
But to me it's delightless — my Nannie's awa. 

The snaw-drop and primrose our woodlands adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn : 
They pain my sad bosom, sae sweetly they blaw. 
They mind me o' Nannie — my Nannie's awa. 

Thou laverock that springs frae the dews o' the lawn. 
The shepherd to warn o' the gray-breaking dawn, 
And thou, yellow mavis, that hails the night-fa', 
Gie over for pity — my Nannie's awa. 

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow and gray, 
And soothe me wi' tidings o' nature's decay; 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa. 



O LASSIE, ART THOU SLEEPING YEl 



SWEET FA'S THE EVE. 

Tune — " Craigieb urn-wood." 
Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 

And blythe awakes the morrow, 
But a' the pride o' spring's return 

Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 

I see the flowers and spreading trees, 
I hear the wild birds singing; 

But what a weary wight can please, 
And care his bosom wringing? 

Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 
Yet dare na for your anger; 

But secret love will break my heart, 
If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me. 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fa' frae the tree. 

Around my grave they'll wither. 

O LASSIE, ART THOU 
SLEEPING YET? 

Tune — " Let me in ihi's ae night." 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet? 
Or art thou wakin, I would wit? 
For love has bound me hand and foot. 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHOKUS. 

O let me in this ae night. 

This ae, ae, ae night ; 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

O rise and let me in, jo. 




Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet; 
Tak pity on my weary feet. 

And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
O let me in, (S:c. 
The bitter blast that round me blaws. 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cau.se 

Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 

let me in, ».S:c. 

HER ANSWER. 

O TELL na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid na me wi' cauld disdain ! 
Gae back the gait ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo. 

CHORUS. 

I tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night; 
And ance for a' this ae night, 

1 winna let you in, jo. 

The snellest blast, at mirkest hours. 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nocht to what poor she endures. 
That's trusted faithless man, jo. 
I tell you now, &c. 

The sweetest flowerthat deck'd themead. 
Now trodden like the vilest weed; 
Let simple maid the lesson read. 

The weird may be her ain, jo. 
I tell you now, «S:c. 
The bird that charm'd his summer- day > 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey; 
Let witless, trusting woman say 

How aft her fate's the same, jc. 
I tell you now, i\:c. 



SONG. 

Tune — " Humours of Glen." 
Their groves o' sweet myrtles let foreign lands reckon, 

Where bright-beaming summers exalt the perfume; 
Far dearer to me yon lone glen o' green breckan, 

Wi' the burn stealing under the lang yellow broom. 

Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly unseen : 

For there, lightly tripping amang the wild flowers, 
A listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 





J- 192 



ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 



Thio' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny valleys, 

And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave; 
Their svveet-scenied woodlands that skirt the proud palace, 

What are they? The haunt of the tyrant and slave! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling fountains, 

The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain; 
He wander-, as free as the winds of his mountains. 

Save lo\ e's w illiiig fetters, the chains o' his Jean. 

'TWAS NA HER BONIE BLUE EE. 

Tune — " Laddie, lie near nte." 
'TwAS na her bonie blue ee was my ruin; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing; 
'Twas the dear smile when naebody did mind us, 
'Twas the bewitching, sweet, stown glance o' kindness. 

Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me; 
But tho' fell fortune should fate us to sever. 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 

Chloris, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest. 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest ! 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter. 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



ADDRESS TO THE WOOD- 
LARK. 

Tune — " Where'll bonie Ann lie." 
O STAY, sweet warbling woodlark, stay. 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray, 
A hapless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art; 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say, was thy little mate unkind. 
And heard thee as the careless wind? 
Oh, nocht but love and sorrow join'd 
Sic notes o' wae could wauken. 

Thou tells o' never-ending care; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair; 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair ! 
Or my poor heart is broken ! 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE 
PARENTS. 

Tune — " John Anderson my Jo." 

How cruel are the parents 

Who riches only prize, 
And to the wealthy booby 

Poor woman sacrifice. 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife; 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 



The ravening hawk pursuing, 

The trembling dove thus flies. 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries; 
Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat. 
She trusts the ruthless falconer. 

And drops beneath his feet. 



FORLORN, MY LOVE. 



MARK YONDER POMP. 



TuNE- 



Deil tak the Wars." 



Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

Round the weahhy, titled bride : 
But when compar'd with real passion, 
Poor is all that princely pride. 
What are their showy treasures? 
What are their noisy pleasures? 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art : 
The polish'd jewel's blaze 
May draw the wond'ring gaze. 
And courtly grandeur bright 
The fancy may delight. 
But never, never can come near the 
heart. 
But did you see my dearest Chloris, 

In simplicity's array; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower 
is, 
Shrinking from the gaze of day. 
O then, the heart alarming, 
And all resistless charming, 
In love's delightful fetters she chains 
the willing soul ! 
Ambition would disown 
The v>'orld's imperial crown; 
Even Avarice would deny 
His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's rap- 
turous roll. 

I SEE A FORM, I SEE A FACE. 

Tune — " This is no »iy ain house." 
O THIS is no my ain lassie. 

Fair tho' the lassie be; 
O weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her ee. 

I see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants, to me, the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 

She's bonie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has had my heart in thrall; 
And aye it charms my very saul, 
The kind love that's in her ee. 
O this is no, &c. 




A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a bhnk, by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' een, 
When kind love is in the ee. 
O this is no, &c. 

It may escape the courtly sparks. 

It may escape the learned clerks; 

But weel the watching lover marks 

The kind love that's in her ee. 

O this is no, &c. 



O BONIE WAS YON ROSY 
BRIER. 

Tune — " I wish my love luas in a mire." 

O BONIE was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms saefair frae haunt o' man ; 
And bonie she, and ah, how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew. 
How pure amang the leaves sae green ; 

But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 

All in its rude and prickly bower, 
That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 

But love is far a sweeter flower 
Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I, the world, nor wish, nor scorn. 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 

FORLORN, MY LOVE. 



in this ae nig 



ht: 



Forlorn, my love, no comfort near. 
Far, far from thee, I wander here; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, love. 



O wert thou, love, but near me. 
But near, near, near me; 
How kindly thou wouldst cheer me, 
And mingle sighs with mine, love. 



# 



194 



LAST MAY A BRA W WOOER. 



Around me scowls a wintry sky, 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy ; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
() wert, \c. 



Cold, alter'd friendship's cruel part. 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart — 



Let me not break thy faithful heart, 
And say that fate is mine, love. 
O wert, (S:c. 

But dreary tho' the moments fleet, 
O let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 
Can on thy Chloris shine, love. 
O wert, &c. 



LAST MAY A BRAW ^^'OOER. 

Tune — " Lothian Lassie." 

Last May a braw wooer cam down the lang glen, 
And sair wi' his love he did deave me : 

I said there was naething I hated like men, 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me, believe me. 
The deuce gae wi'm to believe me. 



He spak o' the darts in my bonie black een, 

And vow'd for my love he was dying; 
I said he might die when he liked for Jean : 

The Lord forgie me for lying, for lying, 

The Lord forgie me for lying ! 

A weel-stocked mailen, himsel for the laird, 

And marriage aff-hand, were his proffers : 
I never loot on that I kend it, or car'd; 

But thought I might hae waur offers, waur offers, 

But thought I might hae waur offers. 

But what wad ye think? in a fortnight or less. 

The deil tak his taste to gae near her ! 
He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess, 

Guess ye how, the jad I I could bear her, could bear her. 

Guess ye how, the jad ! I could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 

I gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 
And wha but my fine fickle lover was there. 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock, 

I glowr'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shouther I gae him a blink, 

Lest neebors might say I was saucy ; 
My wooer he caper'd as he'd been in drink, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie, dear lassie, 

And vow'd I was his dear lassie. 




ALT Ha THOU MAUN NEVER BE MINE. 




I spier'd for my cousin fu' couthy and sweet, 
Gin she had recovei'd her heaiin, 

And how her new shoon fit her auld shachl't feet - 
But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin, a swearin, 
But, heavens ! how he fell a swearin. 

He begged, for Gudesake 1 I wad be his wife. 
Or else I wad kill him wi' sorrow : 

bo e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 

I think I maun wed him to-morrow, to-morrow, 
I think I maun wed him to-morrow. 



HEY FOR A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 

Tune — " Balznaiiio^ia ora." 

AwA wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms. 
The slender bit beauty you grasp in your arms : 
O, gie me the lass that has acres o' charms, 
O, gie me the lass wi' the weel-stockit farms. 



Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher, then hey, for a lass 

wi' a tocher. 
Then hey, for a lass wi' a tocher; the nice yellow 

guineas for me. 

Your beauty's a flower in the morning that blows. 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonie green knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deckit wi' bonie white yowes. 
Then hey, &c. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has blest. 
The brightest o' beauty may cloy, when possest; 
But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie imprest, 
The langer ye hae them — the mair they're carest. 
Then hev, &c. 



ALTHO' THOU MAUN NEVER BE MlNE. 

Tune — " Here's a health to them that's awa, Hi7U'y." 
CHORUS. 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear, 

Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear; 

Thou art as sweet as the smile when fond lovers meet. 

And soft as their jjarting tear — Jessy ! 



196 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 



Altho' thou maun never be mine, 

Altho' even hope is denied; 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing, 

Than aught in the world beside — Jessy \ 
Here's a health, &c. 

I mourn thro' the gay, gaudy day. 
As, hopeless, I muse on thy charms : 

But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 
For then I am lockt in thy arms — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &c. 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

I guess by the love-rolling ee; 
But why urge the tender confession 

'Gainst fortune's cruel decree ■ — Jessy ! 
Here's a health, &c. 




THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 



Bonie lassie, will ye go, will ye go, 

will ye go, 
Bonie lassie, will ye go to the Birks of 

Aberfeldy? 

Now simmer blinks on flowery braes. 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays. 
Come let us spend the lightsome days 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, &c. 

While o'er their heads the hazels hing. 

The little birdies blythely sing, 

(_)r lightly flit on wanton wing 

In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonie lassie, &c. 

The braes ascend like lofty wa's, 
The foaming stream deep roaring fa's, 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, &c. 

The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers. 
White o'er the linns the burnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 
The Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Eonie lassie, &c. 



Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frae me, 
Supremely Ijlest wi' love and thee, 
In the Birks of Aberfeldy. 
Bonie lassie, &c. 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND 
ROVER. 

Tune — " Morag." 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover; 
Like winter on me seizes. 

Since my young Highland Rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonie Castle-Gordon ! 

The trees now naked groaning. 
Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 

The birdies dowie moaning. 
Shall a' be blythely singing. 
And every flower be springing, 

Sae I'll rejoice the lee-lang day, 
When by his mighty warden 

My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, 
And bonie Castle-Gordon. 





Now Simmer blinks on flowery braes, 

And o'er the crystal streamlet plays." — Page 196. 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 



iq: 



STAY, MY CHARMER. 

Tune — "An gillc dubh czar dhubh." 
Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? 
Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 
Well you know how much you grieve 
me; 
Cruel charmer, can you go? 
Cruel charmer, can you go? 

By my love so ill retjuited; 

By the faith you fondly plighted; 

By the pangs of lovers slighted; 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 

Do not, do not leave me so ! 



FULL WELL THOU KNO W'ST. 



Fairest maid on Devon banks, 
Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 

Wilt thou lay that frown aside. 

And smile as thou wert wont to do? 

Fi'Li, well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou tt) malice lend an ear? 
O, did not love exclaim, " Forbear, 
Nor use a faithful lover so? " 
Fairest maid, &c. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair. 
Those wonted smiles, O, let me share; 
And by thy beauteous self I swear, 
No love but thine my heart shall 
know. 

Fairest maid, &c. 



STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests, o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling, 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 

Crystal streamlets gently flowing. 
Busy haunts of base mankind, 

Western breezes softly blowing. 
Suit not mv distracted mind. 



In the cause of right engag'd, 

Wrongs injurious to redress, 
Honour's war we strongly wag'd, 

But the heavens deny'd success. 
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us. 

Not a hope that dare attend; 
The wide world is all before us — 

But a world without a friend ! 

RAVING WINDS AROUND 
HER BLOWING. 

Tune — " M'Grcgor of Kuara's lainoit." 

Ravinc. winds around her blowing. 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strowing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring : 
" Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure ; 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow. 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow ! 
" O'er the past too fondly wandering. 
Oh the hopeless future pondering; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing. 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O, how gladly I'd resign thee. 
And to dark oblivion join thee ! " 

MUSING ON THE ROARING 
OCEAN. 

Tune — " Druimioti dubh." 
Musing on the roaring ocean 

Which divides my love and me; 
Wearying Heaven in warm devotion, 

For his weal where'er he be. 
Hope and fear's alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law; 
Whisp'ring spirits round my pillow 

Talk of him that's far awa. 
Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear, 
Care-untroubled, joy-surrounded, 

Gaudy day to you is dear. 
Gentle night, do thou befriend me; 

Downy sleep, the curtain draw; 
Spirits kind, again attend me, 

Talk of him that's far awa ! 





THE LAZY MIST. 



BLYTHE WAS SHE. 

1 UNE — "A ndro and his cuttie nn 



Blythe, blythe and merry was she, 
Blythe was she but and ben : 

Blythe by the banks of Ern, 
And blythe in Glentur'.c glen. 

By Ochtertyre grows the aik, 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shaw 

But Phemia was a bonier lass 
Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw. 
Blythe, &c. 

Her looks were like a flower in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn ; 

She tripped by the banks of Ern 
As light's a bird upon a thorn. 
Blythe, &c. 

Her bonie face it was as meek 
As onie lamlj's upon a lee; 

The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 
As was the blink o' Phemie's ee. 
Blythe, &c. 



The Highland hills I've wander'd wide, 
And o'er the Lowlands I hae been; 

But Phemie was the blythest lass 
That ever trod the dewy green. 
Blythe, &c. 

PEGGY'S CHARMS. 

Tune — " Neil Gow's lamentation for 
Abercairny." 

Where, braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise. 
Far in their shade my Peggy's charms 

First blest my wondering eyes. 
As one who, by some savage stream, 

A lonely gem surveys, 
Astonish'd doubly, marks it beam 

With art's most polish 'd blaze. 

Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where Peggy's charms I first survey'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 
The tyrant death with grim control 

May seize my fleeting breath; 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

Irish Air — " Coolnn." 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. 

Concealing the course of the dark-winding rill; 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly, appear. 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year ! 

The forests are leafless, the meadows are brown. 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pursues; 

How long I have lived, but how much lived in vain 

How little of life's scanty span may remain : 

What aspects, old Time, in his progress, has worn ; 

What ties, cruel fate in my bosom has torn. 

How foolish, or worse, till our summit is gain'd I 

And downward, how weaken'd, how darken'd, how pain'd 1 

This life's not worth having with all it can give, 

For something beyond it poor man sure must live. 




# 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 



199 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY 
WALK. 

Tune — " The Shepherd's Wife:' 
A ROSE-BUD by my early walk, 
Adown a corn-enclosed bawk, 
Sae gently bent its thorny stalk, 
All on a dewy morning. 

Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled. 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 
Within the bush, her covert nest 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brood. 
The pride, the pleasure o' the wood, 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedew'd, 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeany fair, 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
.Shall sweetly pay the tender care 

That tents thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay, 
Shalt iieauteous blaze upon the day. 
And bless the parent's evening ray 

That watch'd thy early morning. 

TIBBIE, I HAE SEEN THE 
DAY. 

Tune — " /nvercauld 's reel." 
CHORUS. 
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day. 
Ye would na been sae shy; 
For laik o' gear ye lightly me. 
But, trowth, I care na by. 

Yestreen I met you on the moor. 
Ye spak na, but gaed by like stoure : 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor. 
But fient a hair care I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

I doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 

Because ye hae the name o' clink. 

That ye can please me at a wink. 

Whene'er ye like to try. 

O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 



"Fl- 



But sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 
That looks sae proud and high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Ye'U cast your head anither airt. 
And answer him fu' dry. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

But if ye hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier, 
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 
O Tibbie, I hae^ &c. 

But, Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddy's gear maks you sae nice; 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ye as poor as I. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

There lives a lass in yonder park, 
I would na gie her in her sark. 
For thee wi' a' thy thousand mark; 
Ye need na look sae high. 
O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 

I LOVE MY JEAN. 



Tune - 



' Miss Admiral Gordon i 
Strathspey ." 



Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
P"or there the bonie lassie lives. 

The lassie I lo'e best : 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row, 

And monie a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 

I see her in the dewy flowers, 

I see her sweet and fair : 
I hear her in the tunefu' birds, 

I hear her charm the air : 
There's not a bonie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw, cr green; 
There's not a bonie bird that sings. 

But minds me o' my Jean. 





THE HAPPY TRIO. 




O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' 
HILL ! 

Tune — " My Love is lost to me." 

O, WERE I on Parnassus' hill ! 
Or had of Helicon my lill; 
That I might catch poetic skill, 

To sing how clear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my Muse's well, 
My Muse maun be thy bonie sel ; 
On Corsincon I'll glowr and spell, 

And write how dear I love thee. 
Then come, sweet Muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-lang simmer's day, 
I could na sing, I could na say. 

How much, how dear, I love thee. 
I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean. 
Thy tempting looks, thy roguish een — 

By Heaven and earth I love thee! 
By night, by day, a-field, at hame. 
The thoughts o' thee my breast inflame; 
And aye I muse and sing thy name — 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun. 
Till my last weary sand was run; 

Till then ■ — ■ and then I'd love thee. 

THE BLISSFUL DAY. 

Tune — " ScveiitJi of November." 

The day returns, my bosom burns. 

The blissful day we twa did meet; 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd. 

Ne'er summer-sun was half sae sweet. 
Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line; 
Than kingly robes, than crowns and 
globes, 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee 
mine. 
While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give; 
While joys above my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone', I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below 

Comes in between to make us part; 
The iron hand that breaks our band. 

It breaks my bliss — it breaks my heart. 



THE BRAES O' BALLOCH- 
MYLE. 

Tune — " Miss Forbes' s farewell to Banff." 
The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 

The flowers decay'd on Catrine lee, 
Nae lav'rock sang on hillock green. 

But nature sicken'd on the ee. 
Thro' faded groves Maria sang, 

Hersel in beauty's bloom the whyle, 
And aye the wild-wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel the braes o' Ballochmyle. 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again ye'll flourish fresh and fair; 
Ye birdies dumb, in v\ith'ring bowers. 

Again ye'll charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae mair 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile; 
Fareweel the bonie banks of Ayr, 

Fareweel, fareweel, sweet Balloch- 
myle. 

THE HAPPY TRIO. 

Tune — " Willie breiu d a peck o' maiit." 
O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut. 

And Rob and Allan cam to see; 
Three blyther hearts, that lee-lang night, 

Ye wad na fmd in Christen die. 



We are na fou, we're no that fou. 

But just a drappie in our ee; 
The cock may craw, the day may daw. 
And ay we'll taste the barley bree. 
Here are we met, three merry boys. 
Three merry boys, I trow, are we ; 
And monie a night we've merry been. 
And monie mae we hope to be ! 
We are na fou, &c. 

It is the moon, I ken her horn. 

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie; 
She shines sae bright to wyle us hame. 

But by my sooth she'll wait a wee ! 
We are na fou, &c. 
Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold, coward loun is he ! 
Wha first beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the King among us three ! 
We are na fou, (S:c. 



# 




■John Anderson, my jo, John, 
When we were first acquent.' 



Fage 201. 




TAM GLEN. 



THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

Tune— " The blathrie o't." 

I GAED a waefii' gate yestreen, 

A gate, I fear, I'll clearly rue ; 
I gat my death frae twa sweet een, 

Twa lovely een o' bonie blue. 
'Twas not her golden ringlets bright, 

Her lips like roses wat \vi' dew. 
Her heaving bosom lily-white; — 

It was her een sae bonie blue. 

She talk'd, she smil'd, my heart she 
wyl'd. 

She charm'd my soul I wist na how; 
And ay the stound, the deadly wound. 

Cam frae her een sae bonie blue. 
But spare to speak, and spare to speed; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow : 
Should she refuse, I'll lay my dead 

To her twa een sae bonie blue. 



JOHN ANDERSON MY JO. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

When we were first acquent. 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonie brow was brent; 
But now your brow is held, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on your frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 

John Anderson my jo, John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And monie a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither : 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go. 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 



TAM GLEN. 

Tune — " The muckiiig o Geordie's byre. 

My heart is a lireaking, dear Tittie, 
.Some counsel unto me come len', 

To anger them a' is a pity; 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen? 



I'm thinking, wi' sic a braw fellow. 
In poorlilh I might mak a fen'; 

What care I in riches to wallow, 
If I maunna marry Tam Glen? 

There's Lowrie the laird o' Dumeller, 
" Guid-day to you, brute ! " he comes 
ben : 
He brags and he blaws o' his siller, 
But when will he dance like Tam 
Glen? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 
And bids me beware o' young men ; 

They flatter, she says, to deceive me; 
But vvha can think sae o' Tam Glen? 

My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 
He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten : 

But, if it's ordain'd I maun take him, 
O wha will I get but Tam Glen ? 

Yestreen at the Valentines' dealing. 
My heart to my mou gied a sten : 

For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
And thrice it waj written, Tam Glen. 

The last Halloween I was waukin 
My droukit sark -sleeve, as ye ken; 

His likeness cam up the house staukin — 
And the very gray breeks o' Tam 
Glen ! 

Come counsel, dear Tittie, don't tarry; 

I'll gie you my bonie black hen, 
Gif ye will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearly, Tam Glen. 

GANE IS THE DAY. 

Tune — " Guzdwi/e count the la-win." 
Gane is the day, and mirk's the night. 
But we'll ne'er stray for faute o' light, 
For ale and brandy's stars and moon, 
And bluid-red wine's the risin' sun. 

CHORUS. 

Then guidwife count the lawin, the 

lawin, the lawin, 
Then guidwife count the lawin, and 

bring a coggie mair. 




WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO? 



There's wealth and ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen', 
But here we're a' in ae accord. 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 



My coggie is a haly pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care and dool 
And pleasure is a wanton trout. 
An' ye drink it a' ye'U find him out. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 




MY TOCHER'S THE JEWEL. 

O MEIKLE thinks my luve o' my beauty, 

And meikle thinks my luve o' my kin ; 
But little thinks my luve I ken brawlie 

My Tocher's the jewel has charms for him. 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; 

It's a' for the hiney he'll cherish the bee; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hae luve to spare for me. 

Your proffer o' luve's an airle-penny, 
My Tocher's the bargain ye wad buy; 

But an ye be crafty, I am cunnin, 

Sae ye wi' anither your fortune maun try. 

Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wood; 
Ye're like to the bark o' yon rotten tree; 

Ye'U slip frae me like a knotless thread, 
^nd ye'U crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI' AN OLD MAN? 




TUNE- 



IVhat can a Li, 



What can a young lassie, what shall a young lassie, 
What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? 

Bad luck on the penny that tempted my minnie 
To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian ! 
Bad luck on the penny, &c. 

He's always compleenin frae mornin to e'enin, 
He hosts and he hirples the weary day lang: 

He's doylt and he's dozin, his bluid it is frozen, 
O, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 

He hums and he hankers, he frets and he cankers, 
I never can please him do a' that I can; 

He's peevish, and jealous of a' the young fellows: 
O, dool on the day, I met wi' an auld man ! 

My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity, 
I'll do my endeavor to follow her plan; 

I'll cross him, and rack him, until I heart-break him. 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 



i 




BESSY AND HER SFLV.VLV WHEEL. 



203 




O, FOR ANE AND TWENTY, 
TAM ! 

TuNB — " The Moudiewort." 
CHORUS. 

An O for ane and twenty, Tarn ! 

An hey, sweet ane and twenty, Tarn ! 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang. 

An I saw ane and twenty. Tarn. 

They snool me sair, and baud me down, 

And gar m^ look like bluntie, Tarn ! 
But three short years will soon wheel 
roun', 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tarn. 
An O for ane, &c. 

A gleib o' Ian', a claut o' gear, 
Was left me by my auntie. Tarn ; 

At kith or kin I need na spier. 
An I saw ane and twenty. Tarn. 
An O for ane, &c. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 
Tho' I mysel' hae plenty, Tam; 

But hear'st thou, laddie, there's my loof, 
I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An O for ane, &c. 



THE BON IE WEE THING. 

Tune — " The Lads of Saltcoats." 

BoNlE wee thing, cannie wee thing, 
Lovely wee thing, was thou mine, 

I wad wear thee in my bosom. 
Lest my jewel I should tine. 

Wishfully I look and languish 
In that bonie face o' thine; 

And my heart it stounds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine; 
To adore thee is my duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o' mine ! 
Bonie wee, &c. 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 

Tune — " Robze Donna Gorach." 
The Thames flows proudly to the sea. 

Where royal cities stately stand; 
But sweeter flows the Nith to me. 

Where Cummins ance had high com- 
mand : 
When shall I see that honour'd land. 

That winding stream I love so dear ! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily 
bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales. 

Where lambkins wanton thro' the 
broom ! 
Tho' wandering, now, must be my doom. 

Far from thy bonie banks and braes. 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 



BESSY AND HER SPINNIN 
WHEEL. 

1vv<^—" Bottom of the Punch Boml." 

O LEEZE me on my spinnin wheel, 
O leeze me on my rock and reel ; 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en ! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin. 
While laigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal — 
O leeze me on my spinnin wheel. 

On ilka hand the burnies trot. 

And meet below my theekit cot; 

The scented birk and hawthorn white. 

Across the pool their arms unite. 

Alike to screen the birdie's nest. 

And little fishes' caller rest : 

The sun blinks kindly in the liiel'. 

Where blythe I turn my spinnin wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither's lays : 





^ 204 



FAIR ELIZA. 



The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow jinkin round my shiel, 
Amuse me at my spinnin wheel. 

Wi' sma' to sell, and less to bay, 

Aboon distress, below envy, 

O wha wad leave this humble state. 

For a' the pride of a' the great? 

Amid their flarin, idle toys. 

Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 

Can they the peace and pleasure feel 

Of Bessy at her spinnin wheel? 

COUNTRY LASSIE. 

Tune — " John, come kiss mc no-iu." 

In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka Held, 
While claver lilooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, " I'll be wed, come o't what 
will;" 
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, 

" O' guid advisement comes nae ill. 

" It's ye hae wooers monie ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young ye ken; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale 

A routhie butt, a routhie ben : 
There's Johnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre; 
Tak this frae me, my bonie hen. 

Its plenty beets the luver's fire." 

" For Johnie o' the Buskie-glen 

I dinna care a single file; 
He lo'es sae weel his craps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me : 
But blithe's the blink o' Robie's ee. 

And weel I wat he loe's me dear : 
Ae blink o' him I wad nae gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." 

"O thoughtless lassie, life's a faught ! 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair; 
But aye fu' han't is fechdn best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will 
spare, 

An' wilfu' folk maun hae their will; 



Syne as ye brew, my maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink tht 
yill." 

" O, gear will buy me rigs o' land. 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye; 
But the tender heart o' leesome luve 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor- — Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and luve brings peace and joy. 

What mair hae queens upon a throne?'" 

FAIR ELIZA. 

Tune — " The bonie brucket Lassie." 

TiRX again, thou fair Eliza, 

Ae kind lilink before we part. 
Rue on thy despairing lover ! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart.' 
Turn again, thou fair Eliza; 

If to love thy heart denies, 
For pity hide the cruel sentence 

Under friendship's kind disguise ! 

Thee, dear maid, hae I offended? 

The offence is loving thee; 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladly die? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mi.x in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow. 

Not the bee upon the blossom. 

In the pride o' sinni noon; 
Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens in his ee. 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture, 

That thy presence gies to me. 

SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fause diat causes my 
smart, 
I lo'ed her meikle and lang: 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my 
heart, 
And I may e'en gae hang. 






Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon, 
How can ye bloom sue fresh and fair!" 

Page 206. 



THE POSIE. 




A coof cam in wi' rowth o" gear, 

And I hae tint my dearest dear, 

But woman is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonie lass gang. 

Whae'er ye be that woman love, 
To this be never blind, 



Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind : 
O Woman lovely. Woman fair ! 
An Angel form's faun to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee 
mair, 

I mean an Angel mind. 



THE POSIE. 

O LUVE will venture in, where it daur na weel be seen, 
O luve will venture in, where wisdom ance has been ; 
But I will down yon river rove, amang the wood sae green. 
And a' to pu' a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' my dear. 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and blooms without a peer ; 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonie mou; 
The hyacinth's for constancy, wi' its unchanging blue, 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair. 
And in her lovely bosom Til place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simphcity and unaffected air. 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' day, 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna tak away; 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when the e'ening star is near. 
And the diamond drops o' dew shall be her een sae clear ; 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to wear, 
And a' to be a Posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the Posie round wi' the silken band o' luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by a' above. 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall ne'er remuve, 
And this will be a Posie to my ain dear May. 



-^- 





H-"- 206 



GL OM }■ DE CEMBER. 



THE BANKS O' DOON. 

Tune — " The Caledonian Hunt's delight:' 
Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair ! 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae weary fu' o' care ! 
Thou'lt break my heart, thou warbling 
bird, 

That wantons thro' the flowering 
thorn : 
Thou minds me o' departed joys. 

Departed — never to return. 

Thou'lt break my heart, thou bonie bird. 

That sings beside thy mate, 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang. 

And \\'ist na o' my fate. 
Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, 

To see the rose and woodbine twine; 
And ilka bird sang o' its luve. 

And fondly sae did I o' mine. 

Wi.' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Fu' sweet upon its thorny tree; 
And my fause luver stole my rose, 

But ah ! he left the thorn wi' me. 
Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 

Upon a morn in June ; 
And sae I flourish'd on the morn. 

And sae was pu'd on noon. 




VERSION PRINTED IN THE 
MUSICAL MUSEUM. 

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon, 
How can ye blume sae fair ! 

How can ye chant, ye little birds, 
And I sae fu' o' care. 



Thou'll break my heart, thou bonie 
bird. 

That sings upon the bough; 
Thou minds me o' the happy days. 

When my fause luve was true. 

Thou'll lireak my heart, thou bonie 
bird. 

That sings beside thy mate; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist na o' my fate. 



Aft hae I rov'd by bonie Doon, 
To see the wood-bine twine, 

And ilka bird sang o' its love. 
And sae did I o' mine. 



Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose 
Frae off its thorny tree ; 

And my fause luver staw the rose, 
But left the thorn wi' me. 



GLOOMY DECEMBER. 

Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December ! 

Ance mair I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
Sad was the parting thou makes me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; 
But the dire feeling, O farewell for ever. 

Is anguish unmingl'd and agony pure. 




Wild as the winter now tearing the forest. 

Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown. 
Such is the tempest has shaken my bosom, 

Since my last hope and last comfort is gone; 
Still as I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care; 
For sad was the parting thou makes me remember. 

Parting wi' Nancy, oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 




uv 



AFT ON WATER. 



BEHOLD THE HOUR. 

Tune — " Orati Gaoil." 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive ! 

Thou goest, thou darling of my heart : 
Sever'd from thee can I survive ? 

But fate has will'd, and we must part ! 
I'll often greet this surging swell; 

Yon distant isle will often hail : 
" E'en here I took the last farewell; 

There latest mark'd her vanish'd sail." 

Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fowls round me cry, 
Across the rolling, dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistfuleye : 
" Happy, thou Indian grove," I'll say, 

"Where now myNancy's path maybe! 
While thro' thy sweets she loves to stray, 

O tell me, does she muse on me?" 



WILLIE'S WIFE. 

Tune — " Tibbie Fozvler in the Glen." 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 
The spot they ca'd it Linkumdoddie, 

Willie was a wabster guid, 

Cou'd stown a clue wi' onie bodie ; 




He had a wife was dour and din, 
O Tinkler Madgie was her mither; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 

She has an ee, she has but ane, 
The cat has tvva the very colour : 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 

A clapper tongue wad deave a miller; 

A whiskin beard about her mou. 

Her nose and chin they threaten ither ; 
Sic a wife, &c. 

She's bow-hough'd, she's hein shinn'd. 

Ae limpin leg a hand-breed shorter; 
She's twisted right, she twisted left, 

To balance fair in ilka quarter : 
She has a hump upon her breast, 

The twin o' that upon her shouther; 
Sic a wife, &c. 

Auld Imudrons by the ingle sits. 

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin; 
But WiUie's wife is nae sae trig, 

She dights her grunzie wi' a hushion; 
Her walie nieves like midden-creels, 
Her face wad fyle the Logan-water; 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 



AFTON WATER. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes, 
Flow gently, I'll sing thee a song in thy praise; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream. 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the glen, 
Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den, 
Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming forbear, 
I charge you disturb not my slumbering fair. 

How lofty, sweet Afton, thy neighbouring hills, 
Far mark'd with the courses of clear, winding rills; 
There daily I wander as noon rises high. 
My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys below. 
Where wild in the woodlands the primroses blow; 
There oft as mild ev'ning weeps over the lea. 
The swe^-scented birk shades my Mary and me. 




^ 208 



THE LOVELY LASS OF LVVERNESS. 



Thy crystal stream, Afton, how lovely it glides, 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides; 
How wanton thy waters her snowy feet lave, 
As gathering sweet fiow'rets she stems thy clear wave. 

l^■low gently, sweet Afton, among thy green braes. 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; 
My Mary's asleep by thy murmuring stream, 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, disturb not her dream. 



LOUIS, WHAT RECK I BY 
THEE? 

Tune — " My Mother's aye glow r hig o'er 

Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Geordie on his ocean? 
Dyvour, beggar loons to me, 

1 reign in Jeanie's bosom. 
Let her crown my love her law, 

And in her breast enthrone me : 
Kings and nations, swith awa ! 
Keif randies, I disown ye ! 

BONIE BELL. 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly winter grimly flies : 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters, 

And bonie blue are the sunny skies; 
Fresh o'er the uiountains breaks forth 
the morning. 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell; 
All creatures joy in the sun's returning. 

And I rejoice in my bonie Bell. 
The flowery spring leads sunny summer, 

And yellow autumn presses near, 
Then in his turn comes gloomy winter, 

Till smiling spring again appear. 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes 
tell. 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonie Bell. 

FOR THE SAKE OF 
SOMEBODY. 

Tune — " The Highland Watch's fa re-well" 
My heart is sair, I dare na tell, 

My heart is sair for somebody; 
I could wake a winter night, 

For the sake o' somebody ! 



I Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 

1 Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 

j I could range the world around, 
For the sake o' somebody. 

Ye powers that smile on virtuous love, 

O, sweetly smile on somebody ! 
Frae ilka danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody. 
(3h-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do — what wad I not ? 
For the sake o' somebody ! 

O MAY, THY MORN. 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet. 
As the mirk night o' December; 

For sparkling was the rosy wine, 
And private was the chamber : 

And dear was she I dare na name, 
But I will aye remember. 
And dear, &c. 

And here's to them, that, like oursel. 
Can push about the jorum. 

And here's to them that wish us weel. 
May a' that's guid watch o'er them; 

And here's to them we dare na tell, 
The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to, &c. 

THE LOVELY LASS OF 
INVERNESS. 

The lovely lass o' Liverness, 

Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her ee : 
Drumossie moor, Drumossie day, 

A waefu' day it was to me; 
For there I lost my father dear. 

My father dear, and brethren three. 




^Q^ 



A VISION. 



209 



Their winding-sheet the bluidy clay, 

Their graves are growing green to see ; 
And by them Hes the dearest lad 

That ever lilest a woman's ee ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man I trow thou l)e; 
Tor monie a heart thou hast made sair, 

That ne'er did wrang to thine or thee. 

A RKI), RED ROSE. 

Tune — " Wishaw's favourite:' 

(), MY luve's like a red, red rose. 
That's newly sprung in June : 

O, my luve's like the melodie 
That's sweetly played in tune. 

As fair art thou, my l)unie lass. 

So deep in luve am 1 : 
And I will luve thee still, my dear. 

Till a' the seas gang dry. 

Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear. 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun : 

I will luve thee still, my dear, 
While the sands o' li'fe shall run. 

And fare thee vveel, my only luve. 
And fare thee weel awhile ! 

And I will come again, my luve, 
Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 

O, WAT Yl-: WHA'S IN YON 
TOWN ? 

Tune — " The bottie Lass in you toivn." 
( ), WAT ye wha's in yon town, 

Ye see the e'enin sun upon? 
The fairest dame's in yon town. 

That e'enin sun is shining on. 

Now haply down yon gay green shaw, 
She wanders by yon spreading tree : 

How blest, ye flow'rs that round her 
blaw. 
Ye catch the glances o' her e'e ! 

How blest, ye birds that round her sing. 
And welcome in the blooming year. 

And doubly welcome be the spring, 
The season to my Lucy dear ! 



The sun blinks blithe on yon town, 
And on yon bonie braes of Ayr; 

liut my delight in yon town. 
And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 

Without my love, not a' the charms 
O' Paradise could yield me joy; 

But gie me Lucy in my arms. 

And welc<^ie Lapland's dreary sky. 

My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air; 

And she a lovely little flower. 

That I wad tent and shelter there. 

sweet is she in yon town. 

Yon sinkin sun's gane down upon; 
A fairer than's in yon town, 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 

If angry fate is sworn my foe. 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear; 

1 careless quit all else below, 

But spare me, spare me Lucy dear. 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart. 

And she — as fairest is her form. 
She has the truest, kindest heart. 



A VISION. 

Tune — " Crunnock Psalms." 
As I stood by yon roofless tower. 

Where the wa' flower scents the dewy 
air, 
Where the howlet mourns in her ivy 
bower. 
And tells the midnight moon her care ; 

CHORUS. 

A lassie, all alone was making her moan, 
Lamenting our lads beyond the sea: 

In the bluidy wars they fa', and our 
honour's gane an' a'. 
And Ijroken-hearted we maun die. 

The winds were laid, the air was still. 
The stars they shot alang the sky; 

The fox was howling on the hill, 

And the tlistant-echoing glens reply. 




p 



:b£ 



JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PARTING KISS. 




The stream, adown its hazelly path, 
Was rushing by tiie ruin'd wa's, 

Hasting to join the sweeping Nith, 
Whase distant roarings swell and fa's. 

The cauld blue north was streaming forth 
Her lights, wi' hissing, eerie din; 

Athort the lift they start and shift. 
Like fortune's favours, tint as win. 

By heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 
And, by the moonbeam, shook to see 

A stern and stalwart ghaist arise, 
Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 

Had I a statue been o' stane. 

His darin look had daunted me : 

And on his bonnet grav'd was plain 
The sacred posy — Libertie ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 
Might rous'd the slumbering dead to 
hear; 

But oh, it was a tale of woe. 
As ever met a Briton's ear ! 

He sang wi' joy his former day. 

He weeping wail'd his latter times; 

But what he said it was nae play, 
I winna venture'! in my rhymes. 

O, WERT THOU IN THE 
CAULD BLAST. 

Tune — " The Lass of Livi7igstone .''' 
O, WERT thou in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea. 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

I'd shelter thee, I'd shelter thee. 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw, around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom. 

To share it a', to share it a'. 

Or were I in the wildest waste. 

Of earth and air, of earth and air, 
The desart were a paradise. 

If thou wert there, if thou wert there. 
Or were I monarch o' the globe, 

Wi' thee to reign, wi' thee to reign. 
The only jewel in my crown 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 



THE HIGHLAND LASSIE. 

Tune — " The deuks dang o'er my daddy." 
Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair. 
Shall ever be my Muse's care; 
Their titles a' are empty show; 
Gie me my Highland lassie, O. 

CHORU.S. 

Within the glen sae bushy, O, 
Aboon the plain sae rushy, O, 
I set me down wi' right good will, 
To sing my Highland lassie, O. 

Oh, w ere yon hills and valleys mine. 
Von palace and yon gardens tine ! 
The world then the love should know 
I bear my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea; 
But while my crimson currents flow 
I'll love my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

Altho' thro' foreign climes I range, 
I know her heart will never change. 
Tor her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
My faithfid Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

For her I'll dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw 
Around my Highland lassie, O. 
Within the glen, &c. 

She has my heart, she has my hand. 
By sacred truth and honour's band ! 
Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low, 
I'm thine, my Highland lassie, O. 

Fareweel the glen sae bushy, O .' 
Fareweel the plain sae rushy, O ! 
To other lands I now must go, 
T(^ sing my Highland lassie, O ! 

JOCKEY'S TA'EN THE PART- 
ING KISS. 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss, 
O'er the mountains he is gane; 

And with him is a' my bliss. 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 





BONIE ANN. 



Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 

Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my luve, thou feathery snaw, 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain ! 
When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome ee, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blithe his waukening be ! 
He will think on her he loves. 

Fondly he'll repeat her name; 
For where'er he distant roves, 

Jockey's heart is still at hame. 

PEGGY'S CHARMS. 

jNIy Peggy's face, my Peggy's form, 
The frost of hermit age might warm; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind. 
Might charm the first of human kind. 
I love my Peggy's angel air. 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art; 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 
The lily's hue, the rose's dye. 
The kindling lustre of an eye; 
Who but owns their magic sway, 
Who but knows they all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear. 
The gentle look that rage disarms. 
These are all immortal charms 



UP 



IN THE MORNING 
EARLY. 



Up in the morning's no for me, 

Up in the morning early ; 
When a' the hills are cover'd wi' snaw, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west. 

The drift is driving sairly; 
Sae loud and shrill's I hear the blast, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
The birds sit chittering in the thorn, 

A' day they fare but sparely; 
And lang's the night frae e'en to morn, 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 
Up in the morning, &c. 



THO' CRUEL FATE. 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part, 

As far's the pole and Hne; 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 
Tho' mountains frown and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between; 
Yet, dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 

I DREAM'D I LAY WHERE 

FLOWERS WERE 

SPRINGING. 

I dream'I) I lay where flowers were 

springing 

Gaily in the sunny beam; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling, crystal stream : 
Straight the sky grew black and daring; 

Thro' the woods the whirlwinds rave; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling, drumlie wave. 
Such was my life's deceitful morning, 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd; 
But lang or noon, loud tempests storming 

A' my flowery bliss destroy'd. 
Tho' fickle fortune has deceiv'd me. 

She promis'd fair.ardperform'dbutill; 
Of monie a joy and hope bereav'd me, 

I bear a heart shall support me still. 

BONIE ANN. 
Ye gallants bright, I red you right, 

Beware o' bonie Ann : 
Her comely face sae fu' o' grace, 

Your heart she will trepan. 
Her een sae bright, like stars by night, 

Her skin is like the swan; 
.Sae jimpy lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 

Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van ; 
Ina' theircharms, and conquering arms. 

They wait on bonie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man : 
Ye gallants braw, I red you a', 

Beware o' bonie Ann. 



^. 





THERE'S A YOUTH TV THIS CITY. 



MY BONIE MARY. 



Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

An' till it in a silver tassie; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonie lassie. 
The boat rocks at the pier o' Leith; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry ; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law, 

And 1 maun leave my bonie Mary. 



The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

Theglitteringspearsarerankedready 
The shouts o' war are heard afar. 

The battle closes thick and bloody; 
But it's no the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad mak me langer wish to tarry ; 
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar. 

It's leaving thee, my bonie Mary. 




MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe. 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 
Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to the North, 
The birth-place of valour, the country of worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I love. 

Farewell to the mountains high cover'd with snow; 
Farewell to the straths and green valleys below; 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hanging woods; 
Farewell to the torrents and loud-pouring floods. 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is not here; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing the deer; 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roe, 
My heart's in the Highlands, wherever I go. 

THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 

Tune — " Neil Oo7u^s lament.'" 
There's a youth in this city, it were a great pity, 

That he from our lasses should wander awa; 
For he's bonie and braw, weel-favour'd witha', 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a'. 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue; 

His fecket as white as the new-driven snaw; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the slae, 

And his clear siller buckles they dazzle us a'. 
His coat is the hue, &c. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's been courtin; 

Weel-featur'd, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted and bravr ; 
But chiefly the siller, that gars him gang till her. 

The pennie's the jewel that beautifies a'. 
There's Meg wi' the mailin, that fain wad a haen him, 

And Susy whase daddy was Laird o' the ha' ; 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his fancy, 

— But thti laddie's dear sel he lo'es dearest of a'. 



1» 





yON WILD MOSSY MOUNTAIXS. 



213 



THE RANTIN DOG THE 
DADDIE O'T. 

Tune — " East nook o' Fi/e." 
O WHA my babie-clouts will buy? 
Wha will tent me when I cry? 
Wha will kiss me whare I lie? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 

Wha will own he did the faut? 
Wha will buy my groanin maut? 
Wha will tell me how to ca't? 

The rantin dog the daddie o't. 
When I mount the creepie-chair, 
Wha will sit beside me there? 
Gie me Rob, I seek nae mair, 

The rantin dog the daddie o't. 

Wha will crack to me my lane ? 
Wha will mak me fidgin fain? 
Wha will kiss me o'er again? 
The rantin dog the daddie o't. 



I DO CONFESS THOU ART 
SAE FAIR. 

I DO confess thou art sae fair, 
I wad been o'er the lugs in luve; 

Had I not found the slightest prayer 
That lips could speak, thy heart 
could muve. 

I do confess thee sweet, but find 
Thou art sae thriftless o' thy sweecs, 

Thy favours are the silly wind 
That kisses ilka thing it meets. 

See yonder rose-bud rich in dew, 
Amang its native briers sae coy, 

How soon it tines its scent and hue 
When pu'd and worn a common toy ! 

Sic fate ere lang shall thee betide, 
Tho' thou may gaily bloom a while; 

Yet soon thou shalt be thrown aside. 
Like onie common weed and vile. 



YON ^VILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide. 
That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the Clyde, 
Where the grouse lead their coveys thio' the heather to feed^ 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on his reed : 
Where the grouse, <S;c. 

Not Cowrie's rich valley, nor Forth's sunny shores, 
To me hae the charms o' yon wild mossy moors : 
For there, by a lanely, sequester'd clear stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my dream. 

Amang thae wild mountains shall still be my path. 
Ilk stream foaming down its ain green narrow strath: 
For there, wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded fly the swift hours o' love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair; 

O' nice education but sma' is her share; 

Her parentage humble as humble can be. 

But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a prize. 

In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs? 

And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her darts, 

They dazzle our een, as they fly to our hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond sparkling ee, 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 

And the heart-beating love, as I'm clasp'd in her arms, 

O, these are my lassie's all-conquering charms ! 




214 



OUT OVER THE FORTH. 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER 
DOOR? 

Wha is that at my bower door? 

O wha is it but Findlay; 
Then gae your gate, ye'se nae be here ! 

Indeed maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What mak ye sae hke a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay; 
Before the morn ye'U work mischief; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

Gif I rise and let you in; 

Let me in, quo' Findlay; 
Ye'll keep me waukin wi' your din; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
In my bower if ye should stay; 

Let me stay, quo' Findlay; 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
Here this night if ye remain; 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay; 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
What may pass within this bower — 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay; 
Ye maun conceal till your last hour; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 

FAREWELL TO NANCY. 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ! 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deepinheart-wrungtearsI'Upledgethee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the star of hope she leaves him? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me, 
Dark despair around benights me. 
I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy; 
But to see her, was to love her; 
Love but her, and love forever. 
Had we never lov'd sae kindly, 
Had we never lov'd sae blindly, 
Never met — or never parted. 
We had ne'er been broken hearted. 

Fare thee weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare thee well, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure, 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure. 



Ae fond kiss, and then we sever; 
Ae fareweel, alas, for ever ! 
Deep in heart-wrung tears I pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 

THE BONIE BLINK O' 
MARY'S EE. 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green, 

An' scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring. 
By Girvan's fairy haunted stream 

The birdie's flit on wanton wing. 
To Cassillis' banks when e'ening fa's. 

There wi' my Mary let me flee. 
There catch her ilka glance o' love. 

The bonie blink o' Mary's ee ! 

The chield wha boasts o' warld's wealth, 

Is aften laird o' meikle care; 
But Mary, she is a' my ain, 

Ah, fortune canna gie me mair ! 
Then let me range by Cassillis' banks 

Wi' her the lassie dear to me. 
And catch her ilka glance o' love. 

The bonie blink o' Mary's ee ! 

OUT OVER THE FORTH. 

Out over the Forth I look to the north, 
But what is the north and its High- 
lands to me? 
The south nor the east gie ease to my 
breast. 
The far foreign land, or the wild 
rolling sea. 

But I look to the west, when I gae to 
rest. 
That happy my dreams and my 
slumbers may be; 
For far in the west lives he I lo'e best. 
The lad that is dear to my babie and 
me. 

THE BONIE L.AD THAT'S 
FAR AWAY. 

Tune — "Owrc the hills and/ar away.'' 
O HOW can I be blithe and glad. 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 
When the bonie lad that I lo'e best 
Is o'er the hills and far awa? 





lllfW''^'''* 




t' _^^. 



Out over the Forth I look to the north." 



Page 214. 



BANKS OF DEVON. 



It's- no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw; 

But ay the tear comes in my ee, 
To think on him that's far awa. 

My father pat me frae his door, 

My friends they hae disown'd me a' : 

But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonie lad that's far awa. 

A pair o' gloves he gae to me, 

And silken snoods he gae me tvva; 

And I will wear them for his sake, 
The bonie lad that's far awa. 

The weary winter soon will pass, 

And spring will cleed the birken- 
shaw: 

And my sweet babie will be born, 
And he'll come hame that's far awa. 



THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF 

ANNA. 

Tune — " Batiks of Banna."'' 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine, 
A place where body saw na' ; 

Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 
The gowden locks of Anna. 



The hungry Jew in wilderness 

Rejoicing o'er his manna. 
Was naething to my hinny bliss 

Upon the lips of Anna. 
Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah ! 
Gie me within my straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna. 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An Empress or Sultana, 
While dying raptures in her arms, 

I give and take with Anna ! 
Awa, thou flaunting god o' day ! 

Awa, thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna. 
Come, in thy raven plumage, night. 

Sun, moon, and stars withdrawn a': 
And bring an angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 

rosTscKirr. 
The kirk and state may join, and tell 

To do such things I mauna : 
The kirk and state may gae to hell. 

And I'll gae to my Anna. 
She is the sunshine o' my ee. 

To live but her I canna; 
Had I on earth but wishes three, 

The tirst should be my Anna. 



BANKS OF DEVON. 

How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding Devon, 

With green-spreading bushes, and flowers blooming fair ! 

But the boniest flower on the banks of the Devon 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 

Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the dew ! 

And gentle the fall of the soft vernal shower, 
That steals on the evening each leaf to renew. 

O, spare the dear blossom, ye orient breezes. 
With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn ! 

And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizes 
The verdure and pride of the garden and lawn ! 

Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 

And England triumphant display her proud rose; 

A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 
Where Devon, sweet Devon, meandering flows. 



7=1= 




2l6 



THE DEinS AW A WP THE EXCISEMAN. 



ADOWN WINDING NITH. 

Tune — " Tlic mnckino Geordie's byre." 
Adowx winding Nith I did wander, 
To mark the sweet flowers as they 
spring; 
Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa wi' your belles and your beauties. 
They never wi' her can compare; 

Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 

The daisy amus'd my fond fancy. 
So artless, so simple, so wild; 

Thou emblem, said I, o' my Phillis, 
For she is Simplicity's child. 
Awa, &c. 

The rose-bud's the blush o' my charmer, 
Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis prest : 

How fair and how pure is the lily. 
But fairer and purer her breast. 
Awa, &c. 

^'on knot of gay flowers in the arbour. 
They ne'er wi' my Phillis cau vie : 

I ler breath is the breath o' the woodbine. 
Its dew-drop o' diamond, her eye. 
Awa, &c. 

Her voice is the song of the morning 
That wakes through the green-spread- 
ing grove 
WhenPhoebus peeps over the mountains, 
On music, and pleasure, and love. 
Awa, &c. 

I'.ut beauty how frail and how fleeting. 
The bloom of a fine summer's day ! 

While worth in the mind o' my Phillis 
Will flourish without a decay. 
Awa, &c. 



STREAMS THAT GLIDE. 

Tune — " Morag." 
Streams that glide in orient plains. 
Never bound by winter's chains ! 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From tyranny's empurpled bands : 



These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves; 
Give me the stream that s\\eetly laves 
The banks by Castle Gordon. 

Spicy forests, ever gay. 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil. 
Or the ruthless native's way. 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil : 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave. 
Give me the groves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle Gordon. 

Wildly here without control. 
Nature reigns and rules the whole; 
In that sober pensive mood, 
Dearest to the feeling soul. 
She plants the forest, pours the flood; 
Life's poor day Fll musing rave, 
And find at night a sheltering cave. 
Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 
By bonie Castle Gordon. 



THE DEIL'S AWA' WI' THE 
EXCISEMAN. 

The De'il cam fiddling thro' the to\\n. 
And danc'd awa wi' the Exciseman; 

And ilka wife cry'd " Auld Mahoun, 
We wish you luck o' your prize, man. 

" W^e'll mak our maut, and brew our 
drink. 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, 
man ; 
And monie thanks to the muckle 
black De'il 
That danc'd a\\a wi' the Excise- 
man. 

" There's threesome reels, and foursome 
reels, 
There's hornpipes and strathspeys, 
man; 
But the ae best dance e'er cam to our Ian', 
Was — the De'il's awa wi' the Excise 
man. 
We'll mak our maut," &c. 



s 



WHERE ARE THE JOYS. 



217 



BLITHE HAE I BEEN ON 
YON HILL. 

Tune — " Liggeratn cosh." 

Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 

As the lambs before me; 
Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew o'er me : 
Now nae langer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 

Heavy, heavy is the task. 

Hopeless love declaring : 
Trembling, I dow nocht but glowr, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing ! 
If she winna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling. 
Underneath the grass-green sod 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



O WERE MY LOVE YON 
LILAC FAIR. 

Tine — " Hughic Graham." 

O WERE my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossoms to the spring; 

And I, a bird to shelter there, 
When wearied on my little wing; 

How I wad mourn, when it was torn 
By autumn \\ ild, and winter rude ! 



But I wad sing on wanton wing, 

When youthfu' May its bloom re- 
newal. 

O gin my love were yon red rose 
That grows upon the castle wa', 

And I mysel' a drap o' dew. 
Into her bonie breast to fa' ! 

Oh, there beyond expression blest, 
I'd feast on beauty a' the night; 

Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 
Till fley'd awa' by Phoebus' light. 



COME, LET ME TAKE THEE. 

Tune — " Cauld kail." 

Come, let me take thee to my l^reast, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur: 
And do I hear my Jeanie own 

That equal transports move her? 
I ask for dearest life alone 

That I may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' all thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure; 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure : 
And by thy een, sae bonie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever ! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 




WHERE ARE THE JOYS. 

Tune — " Saw ye my Father? " 

Where are the joys I have met in the morning. 
That danc'd to the lark's earlv sang? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wand'ring. 
At evening the wild woods amang? 

No more a-winding the course of yon river, 
And marking sweet flow'rets so fair : 

No more I trace the light footsteps of pleasure. 
But sorrow and sad sighing care. 




2l8 



MY CIILORIS. 



Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim, surly winter is near? 
No, no, the liees humming round the gay roses, 

Pruclaim it the pride of the year. 

Fain would I hide what I fear to discover, 
Yet long, long too well have I known : 

All that has caus'd this wreck in my bosom. 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 

Time cannot aid me, my griefs are immortal. 

Nor hope dare a comfort bestow : 
Come, then, enamour'd and fond of my anguish, 

Enjoyment I'll seek in mv woe. 



O SAW YE MY DEAR. 



TUNE- 



VVIien she cam beti she bobbit.' 




() SAW ye my dear, my Phely? 
O saw ye my dear, my Phely? 
She's down i' the grove, she's wi' a new 
love. 
She winna come hame to her Willy. 

What says she, my dearest, my Phely? 
What says she, my dearest, my Phely ? 
She lets thee to wit that she has thee 
forgot. 
And for ever disowns thee her Willy. 

( ) had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
< > had I ne'er seen thee, my Phely ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's 
fair, 
Thou'st broken the heart o' thy Willy. 



THOU HASl- LEP^r ME EVER, 
JAMIE. 

Tune — " Fee him, father." 
Tiioij hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever; 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thcju vow'd that death 

Only should us sever; 
Now thou'st left thy lass for aye — 

I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never ! 



Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken; 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love anilher jo. 

While my heart is breaking; 
Soon my weary een I'll close — 

Never mair to waken, Jamie, 
Ne'er mair to waken ! 



MY CHLORIS. 

Tune — "My lodging is on the cold ground.''^ 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves, 
The primrose banks how fair : 

The balmy gales awake the flowers. 
And wave thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the' palace gay. 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For Nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 

Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha' : 
The shepherd sto]is his simple reed, 

ISlytlie, in the birken shaw. 

The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn; 
But are their hearts as light as ours 

Ijeneath the milk-white thorn? 












\ 


1-^- «— 1 3 ■ 


c \—^\ ' y. 


1 - PHJLLY. 219 1. 


\ 


The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 


Look abroad through Nature's range. 




In shepherd's phrase will woo : 


1 Nature's mighty law is change; 






The courtier tells a finer tale, 


Ladies, would it not be strange. 




" 


But is his heart as true? 


Man should then a monster prove? 


^ 




These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to 


Mark the winds, and mark the skies; 






deck 


Ocean's ebj), and ocean's flow : 






That spotless breast 0' thine : 


Sun and moon but set to rise, 






llie courtier's gems may witness love — 


Round and round the seasons go. 






But 'tis na love like mine. 


Why then ask of silly man, 

To oppose great Nature's plan? 






CHARMING MONTH OF MAY. 


We'll be constant while we can — 






Tune — " Dainty Davie.'" 


^'ou can be no more, you know. 






It was 'he charming month of May, 








When aU the flowers were fresh and gay, 
One morning, by the l)reak of day, 


PHILLY. 






The youthful, charmin;^ Chloe; 


Tune — " The so^v's tail.'" 






From peaceful slumber she arose, 


UK. 






Girt on her mantle and her hose, 


PiULi.v, happy be that day 






And o'er the flowery mead she goes, 


When, roving thro' the gather'd hay, 






The youthful, charming Chloe. 


My youthfu' heart was stown away. 
And by thy charms, my Philly. 






CHORUS. 








Lovely was she by the dawn, 


SHE. 






Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 


Willy, aye I bless the grove 






Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 


Where first I own'd my maiden love, 






The youthful, charming Chloe. 


Whilst thou didst pledge the Powers 
above 






The feather'd people you might see 


To be my ain dear Willy. 






Perch'd all around on every tree. 








In notes of sweetest melody 


HE. 






They hail the charming Chlot; ; 


As songsters of the early year 
Are ilka day mair sweet to hear. 






Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 


.So ilka day to me mair dear 






The glorious sun began to rise. 


And charming is my Philly. 






( )ut-rivard by the radiant eyes 








()f youthful, charming Chloe. 


SHE. 






Lovely was she, &c. 


As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows. 






LET NOT WOMAN E'ER 


So in my tender bosom grows 






COMPLAIN. 


The love I bear my Willy. 






Tv-a^ — " Duncan Gray." 


HE. j 






Let not woman e'er complain 


The milder sun and bluer sky, 


' 




Of inconstancy in love, 


That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 






Let not woman e'er complain. 


Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 






Fickle man is a))t ti) rove : 


As is the sight 0' Philly. 




^ 


k^ . 


JI 


i 




Al\<rA -^ 1 .\_3^ 








s 



JOHN BARLE YCORN. 



The little swallow's wanton wing, 
Tho' wafting o'er the flowery spring, 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring 
As meeting o' my Willy. 

HE. 

The bee that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower, 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philly. 

SHE. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet 
Is nocht sac fragrant or sie sweet 

As is a kiss o' Willy. 
UK- 
Let fortune's wheel at random rin, 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may 

win; 
My thoughts are a' bound up in ane, 

And that's my ain dear Philly. 

SHE. 

What's a' the joys than gowd can gie ! 
1 care na wealth a single flie; 
The lad I love's the lad for me. 
And that's my ain dear Willy. 

JOHN BARLEYCORN. 

A HAI.I.Al). 

There was three Kings into the east. 
Three Kings both great and high, 

And they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

Tliey took a plough and plough'd him 
down. 

Tut clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John liarleycorn was dead. 

But the cheerfu' Spring came kindly on. 

And show'rs began to fall; 
John Barleycorn got up again. 

And sore surpris'd them all. 

The sultry suns of summer came. 
And he grew thick and strong, 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears, 
That no one should him wrong. 



The sober Autumn enter'd mild. 
When he grew wan and pale; 

His l)ending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 

His colour sicken'd more and more. 

He faded into age; 
And then his enemies began 

T'j shew their deadly rage. 

They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp. 

And cut him by the knee; 
Then tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forgerie. 

They laid him down upon his back. 
And cudgell'd him full sore; 

They hung him up before the storm. 
And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 

They tilled up a darksome pit 

With water to the brim, 
They heaved in John Barleycorn, 

There let him sink or swim. 

They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther woe. 
And still, as signs of life appeai'd, 

They toss'd him to and fro. 

They wasted, o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones; 
But a miller us'd him worst of all, 

P'orhecrush'dhim between two stones. 

Andthey hae ta'en his very heart's blood, 
And drank it round and round; 

And still the more and more they drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

John Barleycorn vi^as a hero bold, 

Of no!)le enterprise. 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise; 

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 

'Twill heighten all his joy : 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear were in her eye. 

Then let us toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand; 

And may his great posterity 
Ne'er fail in old Scotland ! 



==SJ 




WHEN GUILFORD GOOD OUR PILOT STOOD. 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME 
THUS? 

TvtiK — " Roy's Wife" 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart. 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity? 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard, 
Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 

Is this thy faithful swain's reward — 
An aching, broken heart, my Katy? 
Canst thou, &c. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 
Thou may'st find those will love thee 
dear — 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, &c. 



ON CHLORIS BEING ILL. 

Tune — " Aye ivaiikiti o." 

Long, long the night, 

Heavy comes the morrow, 

While my soul's delight 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 



Can I cease to care, 

Can I cease to languish. 

While my darling fair 

Is on the couch of snguish? 
Long, &c. 

Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror; 
Slumber e'en I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 
Long, &c. 

Hear me, Pow'rs divine ! 

Oh, in pity hear me ! 
Take aught else of mine. 

But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, &c. 



WHEN GUILFORD GOOD 
OUR PILOT STOOD. 

A KKAGMENT. 

Tune — " GilUcrankie." 

When Guilford good our Pilot stood, 

An' did our hellim thraw, man, 
Ae night, at tea, began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat. 

And in the sea did jaw, man; 
An' did nae less, in full Congress, 

Than cjuite refuse our law, man. 

Then thro' the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was na slaw, man; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn. 

And Carleton did ca', man : 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like did fa', man, 
Wi' sword in hand, before his band, 

Amang his en'mies a', man. 

Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage 

Was kept at Boston ha', man; 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin 

Guid Christian bluid to draw, man. 
But at New ^'ork, wi' knife an' fork. 

Sir Loin he liacked sma', man. 

Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip. 

Till Fraser brave did fa', man; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day, 

In Saratoga shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought as lang's he dought, 

An' did the Buckskins claw, man; 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save. 

He hung it to the wa', man. 

Then Montague, an' Guilford too, 

Began to fear a fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the 
stoure. 

The German Chief to thraw, man : 
For Paddy Burke, like ony Turk, 

Nae meicy had at a', man ; 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 



<r-\ . 




1 




X 


^Y 1 


= tq^> 


1 


t 


' 222 FAREWELL 


TO ELLZA. \. 


Then Rockingham took up the game; 


The sky was blue, the wind was still, 






Till death did on him ca', man; 


The moon was shining clearly; 








When Shelburne meek held up his cheek. 


I set her down, wi' right good will, 






^ 


Conform to gospel law, man; 


Amang the rigs o' barley; 






Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 


I ken't her heart was a' my ain; 






They did his measures thraw, man. 


I lov'd her most sincerely; 






For North an' Fox united stocks, 


I kiss'd her owre and owre again 






An' bore him to the vva', man. 


Amang the rigs o' barley. 

I lock'd her in my fond embrace; 
Her heart was beating rarely; 






Then Clubs an' Hearts were Charhe's 






cartes, 


My blessings on that happy place, 






He swept the stakes awa', man. 
Till the Diamond's Ace, of Indian race, 


Amang the rigs o' barley ! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 






Led him a anir fa tex /> as, man : 


That shone that hour so clearly ! 
She ay shall bless that happy night 
Amang the rigs o' barley. 






The Saxon lads, wi' loud placads. 






On Chatham's boy did ca', man; 
An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' blew. 






" Up, Willie, waur them a', man ! " 


I hae been blythe wi' comrades dear; 
I hae been merry drinking; 






Behind the throne then Grenville's gone, 

A secret word or twa, man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 


I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear; 

I hae been happy thinking: 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubl'd fairly, 






Be-north the Roman wa', man : 
An' Chatham's wraith, inheavenlygraith, 
(Inspired Barciies saw, man,) 


That happy night was worth them a', 
Amang the rigs o' barley. 






Wi' kindling eyes cry'd, "W'illie, rise ! 


CHORUS. 






Would I hae fear'd them a', man ? " 


Corn rigs, an' barley rigs, 
An' corn rigs are bonie : 






But, word an' blow, North, Fox, and Co. 


I'll ne'er, forget that happy night, 






GowfPd Willie like a ba', man. 


Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 






Till Suthron raise, an' coost their claise 








Behind him in a raw, man; 


FAREWELL TO ELIZA. 






An' Caledon threw by the drone, 








An' did her whittle draw, man; 


Tune — " Gilderoy." 






An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt an' blood, 


From thee, Eliza, I must go. 






To make it guid in law, man. 


And from my native shore; 
The cruel fates between us throw 

A boundless ocean's roar : 
But boundless oceans, roaring wide, 






THE RIGS 0' BARLEY. 


Between my Love and me. 
They never, never can divide 






Tlink — " Coru r/gs are honie:' 


My heart and soul from thee. 






It was upon a Lammas night, 


Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear. 






When corn rigs are bonie. 


The maid that I adore ! 






Beneath the moon's unclouded light, 


A boding voice is in mine ear, 






\ 


r> I held awa to Annie : 

The time flew by, wi' tentless heed. 

Till 'tween the late and early, 
Wi' snia' persuasion she agreed, 
To see me thro' the barley. 


We part to meet no more ! f^ 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by. 
That throb, Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh ! 

J[ 

c ( 1 f- — v-n 


i 




\ 


O^q 


utw 











A'O^F WESTLIN WINDS. 



MY NANIE, O. 

Behind yon hills where Stinchar flows, 
'Mang moors an' mosses many, O, 

The wintry sun the day has clos'd. 
And I'll awa' to Nanie, O. 

The westlin wind blaws loud an' shill ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O : 
But I'll get my plaid, an' out I'll steal. 

An' owre the hill to Nanie, O. 

My Nanie's charming, sweet, an' young : 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O : 

May ill befa' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nanie, O. 

Her face is fair, her heart is true. 
As spotless as she's bonie, O : 

The op'ning gowan, wat wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nanie, O. 

A country lad is my degree. 

An' few there be that ken me, O; 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nanie, O. 

My riches a's my penny-fee. 
An' I maun guide it cannie, O; 

But M'arl's gear ne'er troubles me. 
My thoughts are a', my Nanie, O. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonie, O; 

But I'm as blythe that hands his pleugh, 
An' has nae care but Nanie, O 

Come weel, come woe, I care na by, 
I'll tak what Heav'n will send me, O; 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nanie, O. 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAGMENT. 
CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, O; 

Green grow the rashes, O; 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 

Are spent amang the lasses, O ! 



There's nought but care on ev'ry l-.a 
In ev'ry hour that passes, O; 

What signities the life o' man. 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O. 
Green grow, &c. 

The warly race may riches chase, 
An' riches still may fly them, O; 

An' tho' at last they catch them fast, 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, C" 
Cireen grow, &c. 

But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O; 

An' warly cares, an' warly men, 
May a' gae tapsalteerie, O ! 
Green grow, &c. 

For you sae douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, O : 

The wisest man the warl' saw. 
He dearly lov'd the lasses, O. 
Green grow, &c. 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears 
Her noblest work she classes, O; 

Her prentice han' she tried on man, 
An' then she made the lasses. O. 
Green grow, &c. 



NOW WESTLIN WINDS. 

Tune — " / had a horse, I had iiae mair '' 

Now westlin winds and slaught'ring 
guns 
Bring autumn's pleasant weather; 
The moorcock springs, on whirring 
wings, 
Amang the blooming heather : 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain. 

Delights the weary farmer; 
And the moon shines bright, when I 
rove at night 
To muse upon my charmer. 

The partridge loves the fruitful fells; 

The plover loves the mountains: 
The woodcock loves the lonely dells: 

The soaring hern the fountains: 





:b± 



224 



THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 



M 



Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet. 
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender; 
Some social join, and leagues combine; 

Some solitary wander; 
\vaunt, away ! the cruel sway. 

Tyrannic man's dominion; 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry. 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion ! 
But, Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow; 



The sky is blue, the fields in view. 
All fading-green and yellow : 

Come let us stray our gladsome way, 
And view the charms of nature; 

The rustling corn, the fruited thorn. 
And ev'ry happy creature. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk. 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest. 

Swear how I love thee dearly : 
Not vernal show'rs to budding fiow'rs. 

Not autumn to the farmer. 
So dear can be, as thou to me, 

My fair, my lovely charmer ! 




THE BIG-BELLIED BOTTLE. 

Tune — " Prepare, tny dear brethren, to the taverii. lefsjiy." 

No churchman am I for to rail and to write, 
No statesman nor soldier to plot or to fight, 
No sly man of business contriving a snare, 
For a big-belly'd bottle's the whole of my care. 

The peer I don't envy, I give him his bow; 
I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low; 
But a club of good fellows, like those that are there, 
And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. 
Here passes the squire on his brother — his horse; 
There centum per centum, the cit with his purse; 
But see you the Crown how it waves in the air, 
There a big-belly'd bottle still eases my care. 

The wife of my bosom, alas ! she did die; 
For sweet consolation to church I did fly ; 
I found that old Solomon proved it fair. 
That the big-belly'd bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 

A letter inform'd me that all was to wreck; 

But the pursy old landlord just waddled up stairs, 

With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

" Life's cares they are comforts," a maxim laid down 

By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the black gown, 

And, faith, I agree with th' old prig to a hair, 

For a big-belly'd bottle's a heav'n of a care. 

A STANZA ADDED IN A MASON LODGE. 

Then fill up a bumper, and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw; 
May <;very true brother of the compass and square 
Have a big-belly'd bottle when harass'd with care. 





THE FAREWELL. 



225 



THE AUTHOR'S FAREWELL 
TO HIS NATIVE COUNTRY. 

Tune — " Roslin Castle." 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul with rain, 
I see it driving o'er the plain; 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scattered coveys meet secure. 
While here I wander, prest with care. 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The x\utumn mourns her rip'ning corn 
By early Winter's ravage torn; 
Across her placid, azure sky. 
She sees the scowling tempest fly : 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave, 
I think upon the stormy wave. 
Where many a danger I must dare, 
Far from the bonie banks of Ayr. 

'Tis not the surging billow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal, deadly shore; 
Tho' death in ev'ry shape appear. 
The wretched have no more to fear : 
But round my heart the ties are bound. 
That heart transpierc'd with many a 

wound : 
These bleed afresh, those ties I tear. 
To leave the bonie banks of Ayr. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vales; 
The scenes where wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past, unhappy loves ! 
Farewell, my friends ! Farewell, my 

foes ! 
My peace with these, my love with 

those — 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell, the bonie banks of Ayr. 

THE FAREWELL. 



Tune — "Guz'd 7tight, and joy be lui' you a\ 
Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie ! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten'd few. 

Companions of my social joy ! 



The' I to foreign lands must hie. 
Pursuing Fortune's slidd'ry ba', 

With melting heart, and brimful eye, 
Pll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 

Oft have I met your social band. 

And spent the cheerful, festive night; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command. 

Presided o'er the sons of light : 
And by that hieroglyphic bright. 

Which none but craftsmen ever saw ! 
Strong mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa' ! 

May freedom, harmony, and love, 

Unite you in the grand design, 
Beneath th' Omniscient eye above. 

The glorious Architect Divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising by the plummet's law, 
Till Order bright, completely shine. 

Shall be my pray'r when far awa'. 

And You, farewell ! whose merits claim. 

Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 
Heav'n bless your honour'd, noble name, 

To Masonry and Scotia dear ! 
A last request permit me here, 

When yearly ye assemble a', 
One round, I ask it with a tear, 

To him, the Bard that's far awa'. 



AND MAUN I STILL ON 
MENIE BOAT. 

Tune — " Jackie's g-rey breeks.'" 
Again rejoicing nature sees 

Her robe assume its vernal hues. 
Her leafy locks wave in the breeze, 

All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 



And maun I still on Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e? 

For it's jet, jet black, an' it's like a hawk. 
An' it winna let a body be ! 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw, 
In vain to me the vi'lets spring; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw, 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 
And maun I still, &c. 



J 



^ 



AULD LANG SYNE. 



The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 
Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 

But life to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wauks. 
And maun I still, &c. 

The wanton coot the water skims, 
Amang the reeds the ducklings cry, 

The stately swan majestic swims. 
And every thing is blest but L 
And maun I still, &c. 

The sheep-herd steeks his faulding slap, 
And owre the moorlands whistles 
shill, 
Wi' wild, unequal, wand'ring step 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 
And maun I still, &c. 

And when the lark, 'tween light and 
dark, 
Blythe waukens by the daisy's side, 
And mounts and sings on flittering 
wings, 
A woe-worn ghaist I hameward glide. 
And maun I still, &c. 

Come Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree; 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul, 
When Nature all is sad like me I 
And maun I still on Menie doat, 
And bear the scorn that's in her 
e'e? 
For its jet, jet black, an' its like a 
hawk. 
An' it winna let a body be ! 



HIGHLAND MARY. 

Tune— " Katharine Ogic" 
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery, 
Green be your woods, and fair your 
flowers. 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes, 

And there the langest tarry; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary. 



How sweetly bloom'd the gay green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom, 
As underneath their fragrant shade 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings. 

Flew o'er me and my dearie; 
For dear to me, as light and life. 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' monie a vow, and lock'd embrace. 

Our parting was fu' tender; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore oursels asunder; 
But oh ! fell death's untimely frost. 

That nipt my flower sae early ! ^ 
Now green's the sod, and cauld's the 
clay. 

That wraps my Highland Mary 1 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly I 
And closed for ay the sparkling glance. 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mould'ring now in silent dust. 

That heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 



AULD LANG SYNE. 

.Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And never brought to min'? 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 
And days o' lang syne? 



For auld lang syne, my dear. 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

We twa hae run about the braes. 

And pu'd the go wans fine; 
But we've wander'd mony a weary foot 

.Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, &c. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn. 

From mornin sun till dine; 
But seas between us braid hae roar'd 

Sin auld lang syne. 
For auld, &c. 




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BANNOCKBURN. 227 \t 


And here's a hand, my trusty fiere. 


Oh I had wooers aught or nine. 




And gie's a hand 0' thine; 


They gied me rings and ribbons fine; 




And we'll tak a right guid willie-waught. 


And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 




For auld lang syne. 


And I gied it to the weaver. 


For auld, &c. 




And surely ye'll be your pint-stowp, 


My daddie sign'd my tocher-band, 


And surely I'll be mine; 


To gie the lad that has the land; 


And we'll tak a cup o' kindness yet 


But to my heart I'll add my hand, 


For auld lang syne. 


And gie it to the weaver. 


For auld, &c. 






While birds rejoice in leafy bowers; 


BANNOCKBURN. 


While bees rejoice in opening flowers; 
While corn grows green in simmer 


ROBERT BRUCe's ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 


showers. 


Tune— " //ey tuttie tattze." 


I'll love my gallant weaver. 


Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled. 




Scots, wham Bruce has aften led; 


SONG. 


Welcome to your gory bed. 


Or to glorious victorie. 


Anna, thy charms my bosom fire, 


Now's the day, and now's the hour; 


And waste my soul with care; 


See the front o' battle lower; 


But ah ! how bootless to admire, 


See approach proud Edward's power — 


When fated to despair ! 


Edward ! chains and slaverie ! 




Wha will be a traitor knave? 


Yet in thy presence, lovely fair. 


Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 


To hope may be forgiven; 


Wha sae base as be a slave ? 


For sure, 'twere impious to despair 


Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 


So much in sight of heaven. 


Wha for Scotland's King and law 




Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or free-man fa'? 


FOR A' THAT AND A' THAT. 


Caledonian ! on wi' me ! 


Is there, for honest poverty, 


By oppression's woes and pains ! 


That hangs his head, and a' that? 


By your sons in servile chains ! 


The coward-slave, we pass him by. 


We will drain our dearest veins. 


We dare be poor for a' that ! 


But they shall — they shall he. free! 


For a' that, and a' that. 




Our toils obscure, and a' that; 


Lay the proud usurpers low ! 


The rank is but the guinea stamp; 
The man's the gowd for.a' that. 


Tyrants fall in every foe ! 


Liberty's in every blow ! 




Forward ! let us do, or die ! 


What tho' on hamely f^re we dine. 




Wear hodden-grey, and a' that ; 


THE GALLANT WEAVER. 


Gie fools their silks, and knaves their 


^ T Tune — " The auld wife ayont the fire:' 


wine, 
A man's a man for a' that. <^ r- 




Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 


For a' that, and a' that. 




By monie a flow'er and spreading tree, 


Their tinsel show, and a' that; 




There lives a lad, the lad for me, 


The honest man, tho' e'er sae poor. 




He is a gallant weaver. 


Is King 0' men for a' that. 


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DAINTY DAVIE. 




Ye see yon birkie, ca'cl a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that; 
Tho' hundreds worship at his word, 
He's hut a coof for a' that : 
For a' that, and a' that. 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind. 
He looks and laughs at a' that. 

A prince can niak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke, and a' that; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 
Guid faith he mauna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that. 
The pit'i o' sense, and pride o' 
worth, 
Are higher rank than a' (hat. 
Then let us pray that come it may, 

As come it will for a' that; 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth. 
May hear the gree, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a' that. 

It's coming yet, for a' that. 

That man to man, the warld o'er, 

Shall brothers be for a' that. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers. 
To deck her gay, green spreading 

bowers ; 
And now comes in my happy hours. 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 
Dainty Davie, dainty Davie, 

There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie. 

The crystal waters round us fa', 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A wandering wi' my Davie. 

Meet me, &c. 

When purple morning starts the hare. 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then through the dews 1 will repair. 
To meet my faithfu' Davie. 

Meet me, &c. 



When day, expiring in the west. 
The curtain draws o' Nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best. 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 

Meet me, &c. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Tune — " The hopeless lo7ier" 
Now spring has clad the groves in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers; 
The furrow'd waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ^. 
The trout within yon wimphng burn 

Glides swift, a silver dart. 
And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art : 
My life was once that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam. 

Has scorch'd my fountain dry. 

The little flow'ret's peaceful lot. 

In yonder cliff that grows. 
Which, save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 
Was mine; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom. 
And now beneath the withering blast 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken'd lav'rock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky. 
Winnowing blithe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye; 
As little reckt I sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
O' witching love in lucl<less hour. 

Made me the thrall o' care. 
O had my fate been Greenland's snows 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes. 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, " Hope nae 
mair ! 

What tongue his woes can tell ! 
Within whose bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 





CALEDONIA. 



CLARINDA. 

Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 
The measur'd time is run ! 

The wretch beneath the dreary pole 
So marks his latest sun. 



To what dark cave of frozen night 
Shall poor Sylvander hie ; 

Depriv'd of thee, his life and light. 
The sun of all his joy? 



We part — but by these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps 

Till thy bright beams arise. 



She, the fair sun of all her sex. 

Has blest my glorious day : 
And shall a glimmering planet fix 

My worship to its ray? 

WHY, WHY TELL THY 
LOVER. 

Tune — " Caledotiiat' Hunfs delight.'''' 
Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy? 
Why, why undeceive him. 

And give all his hopes the lie? 

O why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers. 

Chloris, Chloris all the theme ! 
Why, why wouldst thou, cruel, 

Wake thy lover from his dream? 



CALEDONLA. 

" Tune — " Caledonian Hunt's delight." 

There was once a day, but old Time then was young. 

That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From some of your northern deities sprung : 

(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's divine?) 
From Tweed to the Orcades was her domain. 

To hunt, or to pasture, or do what she woukl : 
Her heavenly relations there fixed her reign, 

And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it good. 

A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war, 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew; 
Her grandsire, old Odin triumphantly swore, 

" Whoe'er shall provoke thee, th' encounter shall ru^ ! 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 

To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling corn : 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort. 

Her darling amusement, the hounds and the horn. 

Long quiet she reign'd; till thitherward steers 

A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand ; 
Repeated, successive, for many long years. 

They darken'd the air, and they plunder'd the land. 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their cry, 

They conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside; 
She took to her hills, and her arrows let fly, 

The daring invaders they fled or they died. 

The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, 

The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the shore; 

The wild .Scandinavian boar issu'd forth 
To wi^nton in carnage and wallow in gore : 




230 



ON THE BA TTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR. 



O'er countries and kingdoms their fury prevail'd, 
No arts could appease them, no arms could repel; 

But brave Caledonia in vain they assail'd, 

As Largs well can witness, and Loncartie tell. 



The Cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion, and strife; 
Provok'd beyond bearing, at last she arose. 

And robb'd him at once of his hopes and his lif»: 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France, 

Oft prowling, ensanguin'd the Tweed's silver flood; 
But, taught by the bright Caledonian lance. 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 

Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd, and free. 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose. 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the base; 
But brave Caledonia's the hypothenuse; 

Then ergo, she'll match them, and match them always. 




ON THE BATTLE OF 
SHERIFF-MUIR, 



Tune—" The Ca 

" O CAM ye here the fight to shun. 
Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? 
Or were you at the Sherra-muir, 
And did the battle see, man ? " 
I saw the battle, sair and teugh, 
And reeking-red ran nionie a sheugh. 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the cluds 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 
Wha glaum'd at Kingdoms three, 
man. 



The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, 
To meet them were na slaw, man; 

They rush'd and push'd, and blude out- 
gush 'd, 
And monie a bouk did fa', man : 

And great Argyle led on his tiles, 

I wat they glanced twenty miles : 



'■higs, 



They hack'd and hash'd, while broad- 
swords clash'd. 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd and 
smash'd, 

Till fey men died awa, man. 
But had you seen the philibegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our 

And covenant true blues, man; 
In lines extended lang and large. 
When bayonets oppos'd the targe. 
And thousands hasten'd to the charge, 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath 
Drew blades o' death, till, out of breath. 

They fled like frighted doos, man. 
" O how deil, Tarn, can that be true? 

The chase gaed frae the north, man : 
I saw mysel, they did pursue 

The horsemen liack to Forth, man ; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight, 
They took the brig wi' a' their might, 
And straught to Stirling wing'd their 

flight ; 
But, cursed lot ! the gates were shut. 
And monie a huntit, poor red-coat. 

For fear amaist did swarf, man." 



1^ 




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O WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES ME 



23] 



My sister Kate cam up the gate 

Wi' crovvdie unto me, man; 
She swore she saw some rebels run 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man: 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae guid-will, 
That day their neebors' l)lood to spill; 
For fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose; all crying woes, 
And so it goes, you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen 
Amang the Highland clans, man; 

I fear my lord Panmure is slain, 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man: 

Now wad ye sing this double fight. 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right; 

But monie bade the world guid-night; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 

By red claymores, and muskets' knell, 

Wi' dying yell, the tories fell. 
And whigs to hell did flee, man. 

THE DUMFRIES VOLUN- 
TEERS. 

Tune — " Push about the jorum." 

April, 1759. 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 

Then let the loons beware. Sir, 
There's wooden walls upon our seas. 

And volunteers on shore, .Sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon, 

And Criffel sinlc to -Solway, 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 
On British ground to rally ! 

Fal de ral, &c. 

O let us not like snarling tykes 

In wrangling be divided; 
Till, slap, come in an unco loon 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united; 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted ! 

Fal de ral, &c. 

The kettle o' the kirk and state, 
Perhaps a claut may fail in't; 

But deil a foreign tinkler loon 
Shall ever ca' a nail in't. 



Our fathers' bluid the kettle bought. 
And wha wad dare to spoil it; 

By heaven, the sacrilegious dog 
Shall fuel be to boil it. 

Fal de ral, &c. 

The wretch that wad a tyrant own, 

And the wretch his true-born brother. 
Who would set the mob aboon the 
throne, 

May they be damned together ! 
Who will not sing, " God save the King," 

Shall hang as high's the steeple; 
But while we sing, " God save the King," 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 

O WHA IS SHE THAT LO'ES 
ME? 

TaNE — " Morag." 

O WHA is she that lo'es me. 
And has my heart a-keeping? 

O sweet is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping. 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 

CHORUS. 

O that's the lassie o' my heart, 

My lassie ever dearer ; 
O that's the queen o' womankind, 

And ne'er a ane to peer her. 

If thou shalt meet a lassie, 

In grace and beauty charming. 

That e'en thy chosen lassie, 

Erewhile thy breast sae warming, 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming; 
O that's, &c. 

If thou hadst heard her talking. 
And thy attentions plighted. 

That ilka body talking. 

But her by thee is slighted. 

And thou art all delighted; 

O that's, &c. 

If thou hast met this fair one; 
When frae her thou hast parted, 

If every other fair one, 

But her, thou hast deserted. 
And thou art broken-hearted; 
O that's, &c. 




232 



O, ONCE I LOVED A BON IE LASS. 




CAPTAIN GROSE. 

Tune — " Sir John Malcolm." 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

Igo, and ago, 
If he's amang his friends or foes? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he South, or is he North? 

Igo, and ago, 
Or drowned in the river Forth? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Highland bodies? 

Igo, and ago. 
And eaten like a wether-haggis? 

Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abvam's bosom gane ? 

Igo, and ago, 
Or haudin Sarah by the wame? 

Iram, coram, dago. 

Where'er he be, the Lord be near him ! 

Igo, and ago. 
As for the deil, he daur na steer him, 

Iram, coram, dago. 

But please transmit th' enclosed letter, 

Igo, and ago. 
Which will oblige your humble debtor. 

Iram, coram, dago. 

" So may ye hae auld stanes in store, 
Igo, and ago. 
The very stanes that Adam bore. 
Iram, coram, dago. 

So may ye get in glad possession, 

Igo, and ago, 
The coins o' Satan's coronation ! 

Iram, coram, dago. 



WHISTLE OWRE THE 
LAVE O'T. 

First when Maggy was my care. 
Heaven, I thought, was in her air; 
Now we're married — spier nae mair- 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 




Meg was meek, and Meg was mild, 
Bonie Meg was nature's child — 
Wiser men than nie's beguil'd; — 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 

How we live, my Meg and me. 
How we love and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see — 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 

Wha I wish were maggots' meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet, 
I could write — but Meg maun see't — 
Whistle owre the lave o't. 

O, ONCE I LOV'D A BONIE 
LASS. 

Tune — " I am a Man uitmarried." 
O, ONCE I lov'd a bonie lass, 

Ay, and I love her still, 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast 
I'll love my handsome Nell. 

Fal lal de ral, &c. 

As bonie lasses I hae seen. 

And monie full as braw. 
But for a modest gracefu' mien 

The like I never saw. 

A bonie lass, I will confess 

Is pleasant to the ee. 
But without some better qualities 

She's no a lass for me. 

But Nelly's looks are blithe and sweet. 

And what is best of a'. 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 

She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel : 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars onie dress look weel. 
A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart, 
But it's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul ! 
For absolutely in my breast 

•She reigns without control. 

Fal lal de ral, &c. 




THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 



233 



YOUNG JOCKEY. 

VoUNG Jockey was the blithest lad 

In a' our town or here awa; 
Fu' blithe he whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danc'd he in the ha' ! 
He roos'd my een sae bonie blue, 

He roos'd my waist sae genty sma'; 
An' aye my heart came to my mou, 

When ne'er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and weed, thro' frost and 
snaw ; 
And o'er the lea I look fu' fain 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. 
An' aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he takes me a'; 
An' aye he vows he'll be my ain 

As lans's he has a breath to draw. 



MTHERSON'S FAREWELL. 

FAREWELL,ye dungeonsdark and strong, 

The wretch's destinie : 
M'Pherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows tree. 

CHORUS. 

Sae rantingly, sae wanto'nly, 

Sae dauntingly gaed he; 
He play'd a spring and danc'd it 
round, 

Below the gallows tree. 

Oh, what is death but parting breath ? — 

On monie a bloody pl^in 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

I scorn him yet again ! 

Sae rantingly, &c. 

Untie these bands from off my hands. 
And bring to me my sword ! 

And there's no a man in all Scotland, 
But I'll brave him at a word. 
Sae rantingly, i.\:c. 

I've liv'd a life of sturt and strife ; 

I die by treacherie : 
It burns my heart I must depart 

And not avenged be. 

Sae rantingly, &c. 



Now farewell light, thou sunshine bright. 

And all beneath the sky ! 
May coward shame disdain his name. 

The wretch that dares not die ! 
Sae rantingly, &c. 

THE DEAN OF FACULTY. 

A NEW BALLAD. 

Tune — " The Dragon of iVatttley."' 
Dire was the hate at old Harlavv 

That Scot to Scot did carry; 
And dire the discord Langside saw. 

For beauteous, hapless Mary : 
But Scot with Scot ne'er met so hot. 

Or were more in fury seen. Sir, 
Than 'twixt Hal and Bob for the famous 
job — 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. 
This Hal for genius, wit, and lore. 

Among the first was number'd; 
But pious Bob, 'mid learning's store. 

Commandment the tenth remember'd. 
Vet simple Bob the v'ictory got. 

And won bis heart's desire; 
Which shews thatheavencan boil the pot. 

Though the devil piss in the fire. 
Squire Hal besides had, in this case, 

Pretensions rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are qualifications saucy; 
So their worships of the Faculty, 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Choseone whoshould owe it all, d'ye see. 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 
As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son (jf Circumcision, 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision; 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet. 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 
In your heretic sins may ye live and die. 

Ye heretic eight and thirty ! 
But accept, ye sublime Majority, 

My congratulations hearty. 
With your Honors and a certain King, 

In your servants this is striking — 
The more incapacity they bring, 

The more they're to your liking. 




:t£ 



hV 



234 



OA^ CESSNOCK BANKS. 



I'LL AY CA' IN BY YON TOWN. 

I'll ay ca' in t5y yon town, 

vVnd by yon garden green again; 
I'll ay ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonie Jean again. 
There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail 
guess, 

What brings me back the gate again, 
But she, my fairest faithfu' lass. 

And stownlins we sail meet again. 
She'll wander by the aiken tree 

When trystin-time draws near again; 
And when her lovely form I see, 

haith, she's doubly dear again ! 

A FiOTTLE AND FRIEND. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! 

What wad ye wish for mair, man? 
Wha kens, before his life may end. 

What his share may be o' care, man? 
Then catch the moments as they fly. 

And use them as ye ought, man : — 
Believe me, happiness is shy. 

And comes not ay when sought, man. 

I'LL KISS THEE YET. 

Tune — " The Braes 0' Balgnhidder.'''' 
CHORUS. 
riUkiss thee yet, yet, 

And I'll kiss thee o'er again, 
An' I'll kiss thee yet, yet. 
My bonie Peggy Alison ! 
Ilk care and fear, when thou art near, 

1 ever mair defy them, O; 

Young Kings upon their hansel throne 
Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, &c. 
When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure, O; 
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share. 
Than sic a moment's pleasure, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, &c. 
And by thy een sae bonie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever, O; — 
And on thy lips I seal my vow. 
And breal< it shall I never, O ! 
I'll kiss thee, &c. 



ON CESSNOCK BANKS. 

Tune — " If he be a Butcher neat and trim." 
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells; 

Could I describe her shape and mien; 
Our lasses a' she far excels. 

An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



She's sweeter than the morning dawn 
When rising Phoebus first is seen. 

And dew-drops twinkle o'er the lawn; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



She's stately like yon youthful ash 

That grows the cowslip braes between, 

And drinks the stream with vigour fresh; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

She's spotless like the flow'ring thorn 
With flow'rs so white and leaves so 
green. 

When purest in the dewy morn; 

An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



Her looks are like the vernal May, 
W^hen ev'ning Phcebus shines serene. 

While birds rejoice on every spray; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her hair is like the curling mist 

That climbs the mountain-sides at 
e'en. 

When flow'r-reviving rains are past; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



Her forehead's like the show'ry bow, 
When gleaming sunbeams intervene 

And gild the distant mountain's brow; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her cheeks are Hke yon crimson gem. 
The pride of all the flowery scene. 

Just opening on its thorny stem; 

An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 




YOUNG PEGGY. 



^ 



'35 




Her teeth are like the nightly snow 

When pale the morning rises keen, 
While hid the murmuring streamlets 
flow; 
Air she has twa sparkling rogueish 
een. 

Her lips are like yon cherries ripe, 
That sunny walls from Boreas screen; 

rhey tempt the taste and charm the 
sight; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



her teeth are like a flock of sheep, 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep : 
An' she has twa glancin' sparklin' 
een. 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently st^rs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks behind the seas; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



He. voice is like the 2v'ning thrush 
That sings on Cessnock banks unseen. 

While his mate sits nestling in the bush; 
An' she has twa sparkling rogueish 



But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen, 

'Tis the mind that shines in ev'ry 
grace, 
An' chiefly in her rogueish een. 



PRAYER FOR MARY. 

Tune — " Blue Bonnets." 

Powers celestial, whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair, 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and faultless as your own; 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 



Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast; 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest : 
Guardian angels, O protect her. 

When in distant lands I roam; 
To realms unknown while fate exiles me 

Make her bosom still my home. 



YOUNG PEGGY. 

Tune — " Last time I cam o'er the Muzr." 

Young Peggy blooms our bonniest 
lass, 

Her blush is like the morning, 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass. 

With early gems adorning : 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower. 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresh'ning flower. 

Her lips more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has grac'd them; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is as the ev'ning mild, 

When feather'd pairs are courting, 
And little lambkins wanton wild. 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

.Such sweetness would relent her. 
As blooming Spring unbends the 
brow 

Of surly, savage Winter. 
Distraction's eye no aim can gain 

Her winning powers to lessen; 
And fretful Envy grins in vain. 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 

Ye Pow'rs of Honour, Love, and 
Truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her; 
Inspire the highly favour'd youth 

The destinies intend her; 
Still fan the sweet connubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom; 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 
















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- ^36 TO MARY. - 


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THERE'LL NEVER BE PEACE TILL JAMIE COMES HAME, 




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A SON-G. 

By yon castle wa', at the close of the clay, 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was grey : 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 


^ 








The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murderous wars; 
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to blame — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 










My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword. 
And now I greet round their green beds in the yerd. 
It brak the sweet heart 0' my faithfu' auld dame — 
There'll never he peace till Jamie comes hame. 










Now life is a burden that bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; 
But till my last moment my words are the same — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 










THERE WAS A LAD. 

Tune — " Dainty Davie." 


But sure as three times three mak nine, 

I see by ilka score and line, 

This chap will dearly like our kin', 










There was a lad was born in Kyle, 
But what'n a day 0' what'n a style 
I doubt it's hardly. worth the while 
To be sae nice wi' Robin. 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 
Rantin' rovin' Robin. 


So leeze me on thee, Robin. 

Guid faith, quo' scho, I doubt you, Sir, 
Ye gar the lassies lie aspar. 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur, 
So blessings on thee, Robin ! 

Robin was a rovin' Boy, 

Rantin' rovin', rantin' rovin'; 
Robin was a rovin Boy, 










Our monarch's hindmost year but ane 
Was five-and-twenty days begun, 
'Twas then a blast 0' Janwar win' 
Blew hansel in on Robin. 


Rantin' rovin' Robin. 

TO MARY. 

Tune— " Eiue-bnghts, Mariofi" 










The gossip keekit in his loof, 
(luo' scho wha lives will see the proof, 
This waly boy will be nae coof, 
I think we'll ca' him Robin. 


Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
And leave auld Scotia's shore? 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
Across the Atlantic's roar? 








r 


He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 
But ay a heart aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit till us a'. 
We'll a' be proud 0' Robin. 


sweet grows the lime and tne orange 

And the apple on the pine; 
But a' the charms 0' the Indies 

Can never equal thine. 

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It THE SODGER'S RETURN. 337 \- 




I hae sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 


Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 




I hae sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 


And mopy a widow mourning : 






And sae may the Heavens forget me, 


I left the lines and tented field, 






'^ ^ When I forget my vow ! 


Where lang I'd been a lodger. 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 


' 




plight me your faith, my Mary, 


A poor and honest sodger. 






Anil plight me your lily-white hand; 








plight me your faith, my Mary, 


A leal, light heart was in my breast. 






Before I leave Scotia's strand. 


My hand unstain'd wi' plunder; 
And for fair Scotia, hame again 






We hae plighted our troth, my Mary, 


I cheery on did wander. 






In mutual affection to join, 


I thought upon the banks 0' Coil, 






And curst Idc the cause that shall part us ! 
The hour, and the moment 0' time ! 


I thought upon my Nancy, 






I thought upon the witching smile 








That caught my youthful fancy. 






MARY MORISON. 


At length I reach'd the bonie glen. 






Tune — " Bide ye yet." 


Where early life I sported; 






Mary, at thy window be, 


I pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn. 






It is the wish'd, the trysted hour ! 


Where Nancy aft I courted : 






Those smiles and glances let me see, 


Wha spied I but my ain dear maid. 






That makes the miser's treasure poor; 


Down by her mother's dwelling ! 






How blythely wad I bide the stouie, 


And turn'd me round to hide the flood 






A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 


That in my een was swelling. 






Could I the rich reward secure. 








The lovely ]\Iary Morison. 


Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, Sweet lass, 
Sweet as yon hawthorn blossom. 






Yestreen, when to the trembling string 


! happy, happy may he be. 






The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha', 


That's dearest to thy bosom ! 






To thee my fancy took its wing, 


My purse is light, I've far to gang, 






I sat, but neither heard or saw : 


And fain wad be thy lodger; 






rho' this was fair, and that was braw, 


I've serv'd my King and Country lang — 






And yon the toast of a' the town, 


Take pity on a sodger ! 






I sigh'd, and said amang them a', 








"Ye are nae Mary Morison." 


Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me. 
And lovelier was than ever : 






Mary, canst thou wreck his peace, 


Quo' she, a sodger ance I lo'ed. 






Wha for thy sake wad gladly die? 


Forget him shall I never : 






Or canst thou break that heart of his, 


Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 






Whase only faut is loving thee? 


Ye freely shall partake it. 






ff love for love thou wilt na gie, 


That gallant badge, the dear cockade. 






At least be pity to me shown ! 


Ye're welcome for the sake o't. 






A thought ungentle cannt^ be 








The thought 0' Mary Morison. 


She gaz'd — ■ she redden'd like a rose — 
Syne pale like onie lily; 






THE SODGER'S RETURN. 


She sank within my arms, and cried. 








Art thou my ain dear Willie? f^ 


-^ 




Tune — " The Mill Mill O." 


By Him who made yon sun and sky, 






When wild war's deadly blast was 


By whom true love's regarded. 






blawn, 


I am the man; and thus may still 






And gentle peace returning, 


True lovers be rewarded I 






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M 238 



MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 



The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted; 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love. 

And mair we'se ne'er Ije parted. 
Quo' she, My grandsire left me gowd, 

A mailen plenish'd fairly; 
And come, my faithful sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it deaiiv ! 



For gold the merchant ploughs the mair 

The farmer ploughs the manor; 
But glory is the sodger's prize ; 

The sodger's wealth is honour : 
The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 

Nor count him as a stranger, 
Remember he's his Country's stay 

In day and hour o' danger. 



MY FATHER WAS A FARMER. 

Tune— " The Weaver and Jus Shuttle, O." 
My Father was a F'armer upon the Carrick border, O 
And carefully he bred me in decency and order, O 
He bade me act a manly part, though I had ne'er a farthing, O 
For without an honest manly heart, no man was worth regarding, O. 

Then out into the world my course I did determine, O 
Tho' to be rich was not my wish, yet to be great was charming, O 
My talents they were not the worst : nor yet my education, (J 
Resolv'd was 1, at least to try, to mend my situation, ( ). 

In many a way, and vain essay, I courted fortune's favour; O 
Some cause unseen still stept between, to frustrate each endeavour, O 
Sometimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; sometimes by friends forsaken; O 
And when my hope was at the top, I still was worst mistaken, O. 

Then sore harass'd, and tir'd at last, with fortune's vain delusion; O 
I dropt my schemes, like idle dreams, and came to this conclusion; O 
The past was bad, and the future hid; its good or ill untried; O 
But the present hour was in my pow'r, and so I would enjoy it, O. 

No help, nor hope, nor view had I; nor person to befriend me; O 
So I must toil, and sweat and broil, and labour to sustain me, O 
To plough and sow, to reap and mow, my father bred me early; O 
For one, he said, te labour bred, was a match for fortune fairly, O. 

Thus all obscure, unknown, and poor, thro' life I'm doom'd to wander, O 
Till down my weary bones I lay in everlasting slumber; O 
No view nor care, but shun whate'er might breed me pain or sorrow; O 
I live to-day as well's I may, regardless of to-morrow, O. 

But cheerful still, I am as well as a monarch in a palace, O 

Tho' fortune's frown still hunts me down, with all her wonted malice- O 

I make indeed my daily bread, but ne'er can make it farther ; O 

But as daily bread is all I need, I do not much regard her, O. 

When sometimes by my labour I earn a little money, O 
Some unforeseen misfortune comes generally upon me; O 
Mischance, mistake, or by neglect, or my good-natur'd folly; O 
But come what will, I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er be melancholy, O 

All you who follow wealth and power, with unremitting ardour, O 
The more in this you look for bliss, you leave your view the farther; O 
Had you the wealth Potosi boasts, or nations to adore you, O 
A cheerful honest-hearted clown I will prefei.- before you, O. 





WHEN FIRST I CAME TO STEWART KYLE. 



239 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR 
THE DEA TH OF HER SON. 

Tune — " Finlayston House." 
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped, 

And pierc'd my darling's heart; 
And with him all the J03S are fled 

Life can to me impart ! 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dislionour'd laid: 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 

The mother-linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravish'd young; 
So I, for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-day long. 
Death, oft I've feared thy fatal blow, 

Xuw, fond, I bare my breast, 
O, do thou kindly lav me low 

With him I love, at rest ! 

BONIE LESLEY. 

Tune — " The Collier's hotiie Dochter." 

SAW ye bouie Lesley 

As she gaed o'er the border? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 
To see her is to love her. 

And love but her for ever; 
For Nature made her what she is, 

And ne'er made sic anither ! 

Thou art a queen, Fair Lesley, 
Thy sulijects we, before thee : 

Thou art divine, P'air Lesley, 
The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The Deil he could na scaith thee. 
Or aught that wad belang thee; 

1 le'd look into thy bonie face. 

And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

The Powers aboon will tent thee; 

Misfortune sha'na steer thee; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely. 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again. Fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie ! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's nane again sae bonie. 



AMANG THE TREES. 

Tune — " The Kiiig of Fra7ice, he rade a 
race.'" 

Amang the trees where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone. 

And to her pipe was singing; () 
'Twas Pibroch, Sang, Strathspey, or 
Reels, 

She dirl'd them aft' fu' clearly, O 
When there cam a yell o' foreign squeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O — 

Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie ; O 
The hungry bike did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and wearie : O — 
But a royal ghaist wha ance was cas'd 

A prisoner aughteen year awa, 
He fir'd a fiddler in the north 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O. 



WHEN FIRST I CAME TO 
S'FEWART KYLE. 

Tune — " / had a horse and / had nae mair." 
When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was na steady. 
Where'er I gaed, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had aye : 
But when I came roun' by Mauchline 
town. 

Not dreadin' onie body. 
My heart was caught l^efore I thought. 

And by a Mauchline lady. 



ON SENSIBILITY. 



Air — " Sensibility." 

Sensibility, how charming. 

Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; 
But distress, with horrors arming. 

Thou hast also known too well ! 
Fairest flower, behold the lily. 

Blooming in the sunny ray : 
Let the blast sweep o'er the valley. 

See it prostrate on the clay. 



^. 





240 



O RAGING FORTUNE'S WITHERING BLAST. 



Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 
reUing o'er his little joys; 

Hapless bird ! a prey the surest 
To each pirate of the skies. 

Dearly bought the hidden treasure 
Finer feelings can bestow; 

Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure 
Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



MONTGOMERIE'S PEGGY. 

Tune — " Galla Water." 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 
Amang the heather, in my plaidie. 

Yet happy, happy would 1 be. 

Had I my dear Montgomerie's Peggy. 

When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 
And winter nights weredarkandrainy, 

I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 
I'd shelter dear Montgomerie's '. 



Were I a Baron proud and high, 

And horse and servants waiting ready. 

Then a' 'twad gie o' joy to me, 

Thesharin't wi' Montgomerie's Peggy. 




ON A BANK OF FLOWERS. 

On a bank of flowers, in a summer day. 

For summer lightly drest, 
The youthful blooming Nelly lay. 

With love and sleep opprest ; 

When Willie, wand'ring thro' the wood, 
Who for her favour oft had sued ; 
Hegaz'd.he wish'd,he fear'd,he blush'd. 
And trembled where he stood. 

Her closed eyes, like weapons sheath'd. 

Were seal'd in soft repose; 
Her lips, still as she fragrant breath'd, 

It richer dy'd the rose. 

The springing lilies sweetly prest, 
Wild-wanton kiss'd her rival breast; 
He gaz'd,he wish'd,hefear'd,he blush'd. 
His bosom ill at rest. 




Her robes, light waving in the breeze. 

Her tender limbs embrace ! 
Her lovely form, her native ease. 

All harmony and grace ! 

Tumultuous tides his pulses roll, 
A faltering ardent kiss he stole; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd,heblush'd; 
And sigh'd his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake 

On fear-inspired wings; 
So Nelly, starting, half awake. 

Away affrighted springs : 

But Willie follow'd • — as he should, 
He overtook her in the wood : 
He vow'd, he pray'd, he found the maid 
Forgiving all, and good. 



O RAGING FORTUNE'S 
WITHERING BLAST. 

O RAGING fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low ! O 

O raging fortune's withering blast 
Has laid my leaf full low ! O. 

My stem was fair, my bud was green. 
My blossom sweet did blow; O 

The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild. 
And made my branches grow; O. 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O 

But luckless fortune's northern storms 
Laid a' my blossoms low, O. 



EVAN BANKS. {See jwte.-) 
Tune — " Savouriia Delish." 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore retires : 
To Evan Banks with temp'rate ray. 
Home of my youth, he leads the day. 

Oh Banks to me for ever dear ! 
Oh stream, whose murmur still I hear ! 
All, all my hopes of bliss reside 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde. 




TO MAR V LV HE A VEN. 



241 




And she, in simple beauty drest, 
Whose image lives within my breast; 
Who trembling heard my parting sigh, 
And long pursued me with her eye : 

Does she, with heart unchang'd as mine. 
Oft in the vocal bowers recline ? 
Or, where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde? 

Ve lofty Banks that Evan bound, 
Ve lavish woods that wave around, 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
Which sweetly winds so far below; 

What secret charm to mem'ry brings. 
All that on Evan's border springs ! 
Sweet Banks ! ye bloom by Mary's side : 
Blest stream! she views thee haste to 
Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost ! 
Return, ye moments of delight. 
With richer treasures bless my sight ! 

Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart I 
No more may aught my steps divide 
From that dear stream which flows to 
Clyde ! 



WOMEN'S MINDS. 

Tune — "K)r «' t/tat." 

Tho' women's minds like winter winds 
May shift and turn, and a' that. 

The noblest breast adores them maist, 
A consequence I draw that. 

For a' that, and a' that. 

And twice as meikle's a' that, 

The bonie lass that I loe best 
She'll be my ain for a' that. 

Great love I bear to all the fair. 
Their humble slave, and a' that; 

xSut lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 
For a' that, &c. 



But there is ane aboon the lave. 
Has wit, and sense, and a' that; 

A bonie lass, I like her best, 
And wha a crime dare ca that? 
For a' that, &c. 

In rapture sweet this hour we meet, 
Wi' mutual love and a' that; 

But for how lang the flie may stang, 
Let inclination law that. 
For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft hae put me daft. 

They've ta'en me in, and a' that; 
But clear vour decks, and here's " The 
Sex! " 
I like the jades for a' that. 
For a' that, &c. 

TO MARY IN HEAVEN. 

Tune — " 3h'ss Forbes farewell to Banff." 

Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn. 
Again thou usher'st in the day 

My Mary from my soul was torn. 
O Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans thrt rend his 
breast? 

That sacred hour can I forget? 

Can I forget the hallow'd grove. 
Where by the winding Ayr we met. 

To live one day of parting love ? 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past; 
Thy image at our last embrace; 

Ah ! little thought we 'twas our last ! 

Ayr gurgling kiss'd his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning 
green; 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd 
scene. 
The flowers sprang wanton to be prestj 

The birds sang love on ev'ry spray. 
Till too, too soon, the glowing west 

Proclaim'd the speed of winged day. 




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- 242 SWEETEST MAY. [ 


iJ 


Still o'er these scenes my mem'ry wakes, 


ADDRESS TO GENERAL 






And fondly broods with miser care ! 


DUMOURIER. 










Time but the impression deeper makes, 










^ 


^ As streams their channels deeperwear. 


A PARODY ON ROBIN ADAIK. tj 1 I, 








My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy blissful place of rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his 
breast? 

TO MARY. 

Could aught of song declare my pains, 
Could artful numbers move thee, 

The Muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 
Mary, how I love thee ! 


You're welcome to Despots, Dumou- 

rier ; 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier; 
How does Dampier do? 
Aye, and Bournonville too? 
Why did they not come along with yon, 
Dumourier? 

I will fight France with you, Dumourier; 
I will fight France with you, Dumourier; 
I will fight France with you, 
I will take my chance with you ; 
By my soul FU dance a dance with you, 
Dumourier. 








They who but feign a wounded heart 








May teach the lyre to languish; 










But what avails the pride of art, 


Then let us fight about, DumouriCiT; 








When wastes the soul with anguish? 


Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 








Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye. 


Then let us fight about. 

Till freedom's spark is out, 

Then we'll be damn'd no doubt — Du- 








read th' imploring lover ! 


mourier. 








For well I know thy gentle mind 


SWEETEST MAY. 








Disdains art's gay disguising; 










Beyond what fancy e'er refin'd. 
The voice of nature prizing. 


Sweetest May, let love inspire thee; 








Take a heart which he designs thee; 








As thy constant slave regard it; 










For its faith and truth reward it. 








LEAVE NOVELS. 










LEAVE novels, ye Mauchline belles. 


Proof 0' shot to birth or money, 
Not the wealthy, but the bonie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
In love's silken band can bind it ! 








Ye're safer at your spinning wheel; 








Such witching books are baited hooks 
For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 








Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 


ONE NIGHT AS I DID 








They make your youthful fancies reel. 


WANDER. 








They heatyour brains, and fire your veins, 








And then you're prey for Rob Moss- 


Tune — " JoAh Anderson my Jo." 








giel. 


One night as I did wander, 








Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung; 


When corn begins to shoot. 








A heart that warmly seems to feel; 


I sat me down to ponder. 








That feeling heart but acts a part. 


Upon an auld tree root : 








'Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 


Auld Ayr ran by before me, (^ 


_, 








The frank address, the soft caress. 


And bicker'd to the seas; 










Are worse than poison'd darts of steel. 


A cushat crooded o'er me 










The frank address, and politesse. 


That echoed thro' the braes. 








i 


Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 










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THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE. 243 

THE WINTER IT IS PAST. 

A FRAGMENT. 

The winter it is past, and the simmer comes at last, 

And the small birds sing on every tree ; 
Now everything is glad, while I am very sad, 

Since my true love is parted from me. 

The rose upon the brier by the waters running clear, 

May have charms for the linnet or the bee; 
Their little loves are blest, and their little hearts at rest- 

But my true love is parted from me. 



FRAGMENT. 



Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom hing ; 

How sweet unto that breast to cling. 
And round that neck entwine her I 



Her lips ?'-e roses wet wi' dew ! 

O, what a feast her bonie mou i 
Her cheeks a mair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner ; 



THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 

Tune — "Captain O'Kcan." 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear thro' the vale; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the morning, 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair, 
While the lingering moments are number'd by care? 

No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing, 
Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that I dar'd could it merit their malice, 
A King or a Father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these valleys. 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can find none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings thus wretched, forlorn, 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I mourn : 

Your deeds prov'd so loyal in hot bloody trial, 
Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return ? 

THE BELLES OF MAUCHLINE. 

Tune — " Botrnze Dundee.'^ 
In Mauchline there dwells six proper young Belles, 

The pride of the place and its neighbourhood a', 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would guess, 

In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a' : 

Miss Miller is fine. Miss Markland's divine, 

Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is braw : 

There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Miss Morton, 
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'. 



n 



Tq- 




-44 



-HE TARBOLTON LASSES. 



THE TARBOLTON LASSES. 



If ye gae up to yon hill-tap, 
Ye'U there see bonie Peggy; 

She kens her father is a laird, 
And she forsooth's a leddy. 

There Sophy tight, a lassie bright, 
Besides a handsome fortune : 

Wha canna win her in a night. 
Has little art in courting. 

CJae down by Faile, and taste the ale, 

And tak a look o' Mysie: 
She's dour and din, a deil within, 

But aiblins she may please ye. 



If she be shy, her sister try, 

Ye'll maybe fancy Jenny, 
If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense — 

She kens hersel she's bonie. 

As ye gae up by yon hill-side, 

Speer in for bonie Bessy; 
She'll gi'e ye a beck, and bid ye light. 

And handsomely address ye. 

There's few sae bonie, nane sae gude, 
In a' King George' dominion; 

If ye should doubt the truth o' this — 
.It's Bessy's ain opinion ! 




THE TARBOLTON LASSES. 

Ix Tarbolton, ye ken, there are proper young men. 
And proper young lasses and a', man ; 

But ken ye the Ronalds that live in the Bennals, 
They carry the gree frae them a', man. 

Their father's a laird, and weel he can spare't. 
Braid money to tocher them a', man. 

To proper young men, he'll clink in the hand 
Gowd guineas a hunder or twa, man. 

There's ane they ca' Jean, I'll warrant ye've seen 

As bonie a lass or as braw, man. 
But for sense and guid taste she'll vie wi' the best^ 

And a conduct that beautifies a', man. 

The charms o' the min', the langer they shine, 

The mair admiration they draw, man ; 
While peaches and cherries, and roses ami lilies, 

They fade and they wither awa, man. 
If ye be for Miss Jean, tak this frae a frien', 

A hint o' a rival or twa, man, 
The Laird o' Blackbyre wad gang through the fire^ 

If that wad entice her awa, man. 
The Laiid o' Braehead has been on his speed, 

For mair than a towmond or twa, man, 
The I .aird o' the Ford will straught on a borrd. 

If he canna get her at a', man. 
Then Anna comes in, the pride o' her kin, 

The boast of our bachelors a', man : 
Sae sonsy and sweet, sae fully complete, 

She steals our affections awa, man. 





HERES A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AW A. 



245 



If I should detail the pick and the wale 

O' lasses that live here awa, man, 
The fault wad be mine, if they didna shine, 

The sweetest and best o' them a', man. 

I lo'e her mysel, but darena weel tell, 
My poverty keeps me in awe, man, 

For making o' rhymes, and working at times, 
Does little or naething at a', man. 

Yet I wadna choose to let her refuse, 
Nor ha'e't in her power to say na, man. 

For though I be poor, unnoticed, obscure, 
My stomach's as proud as them a', man. 

Though I canna ride in weel-booted pride, 
And flee o'er the hills like a craw, man, 

I can baud up my head wi' the best o' the breed, 
Though fluttering ever so braw, man. 

My coat and my vest, they are Scotch o' the best, 
O' pairs o' guid breeks I ha'e twa, man. 

And stockings and pumps to put on my stumps, 
And ne'er a wrang steek in them a', man. 

My sarks they are few, Ijut tive o' them new, 
Twal' hundred, as white as the snaw, man, 

A ten-shilling's hat, a Holland cravat; 
There are no mony poets sae braw, man. 

I never had frien's, weel stockit in means. 
To leave me a hundred or twa, man, 

Nae weel tochered aunts, to wait on their drants, 
And wish them in hell for it a', man. 

I never was canny for hoarding o' money. 

Or claughtin't together at a', man, 
I've little to spend, and naething to lend. 

But deevil a shilling I awe, man. 



HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA. 



Here'.s a health to them that's awa. 
Here's a health to them that's awa; 
And wha winna wish guid luck to our 

cause. 
May never guid luck be their fa' ! 
It's guid to be merry and wise. 
It's guid to be honest and true, 
It's guid to support Caledonia's cause, 
And bide by the buff and the blue. 



T^- 



Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to them that's awa, 
Here's a health to Charlie the chief d 

the clan, 
Altho' that his band be but sma'. 
May liberty meet wi' success ! 
May prudence protect her frae evil ! 
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 
And wander their way to the devil ! 








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- 246 MY LADTS GOWN THERE'S GA IRS UPON' T. 


) 


Here's a health to them that's awa, 


DAMON AND SYLVIA. 




Here's a health to them that's awa; 








Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland 


Tune — " The tither mor,i, as I/orlor,i." 






laddie, 


Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill, 


" 




That lives at the lug 0' the law 1 


And glances o'er the, brae. Sir : 






Here's freedom to him that wad read, 


Slides by a bower where monie a flower 






Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 


Sheds fragrance on the day, Sir. 






There's nane ever fear'd that the truth 








should be heard, 


There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay : 






But they wham the truth wad indite. 


To love they thought nae crime. Sir; 






Here's a health to them that's awa, 


The wild birds sang, the echoes rang, 






Here's a health to them that's awa, 


While Damon's heart beat time. Sir. 






Here's Chieftain M'Leod, a Chieftain 








worth gowd, 
Tho' bred among mountains 0' snaw ! 








MY LADY'S GOWN THERE'S 








GAIRS UPON'T. 








CHORITS. 






I'M OWRE YOUNG TO 


My lady's gown there's gairs upon't. 






MARRY YET. 


And gowden flowers sae rare upon't; 
But Jenny s jimps and jirkinet. 






I AM my mammie's ae bairn. 


My lord thinks muckle mair upon't. 






Wi' unco folk I weary, Sir; 


My lord a-hunting he is gane, 






And lying in a man's bed. 


But hounds or hawks wi' him are nane, 






I'm fley'd wad mak me eerie. Sir. 


By Colin's cottage lies his game. 
If Colin's Jenny be at hame. 






CHORUS. 


My lady's gown, &c. 






I'm owre young, I'm owre young. 


My lady's white, my lady's red, 






I'm owre young to marry yet; 


And kith and kin 0' Cassillis' blude, 






I'm owre young, 'twad be a sin 


But her ten-pund lands 0' tocher guid 






To tak me frae my mammie yet. 


Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 
My lady's gown, &c. 






My mammie coft me a new gown, 








The kirk maun hae the gracing o't; 


Out o'er yon muir, out o'er yon moss, 






Were I to lie wi' you, kind Sir, 


Whare gor-cocks thro' the heather pass. 






I'm fear'd ye'd spoil the lacing o't. 
I'm owre young, &c. 


There won? auld Colin's bonie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness. 
My lady's gown, &c. 






Hallowmas is come and gane, 


Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 






The nights are lang in winter, Sir; 


Like music notes 0' lover's hymns: 






And you an' I in ae bed, 


The diamond dew in her een sae blue, 






In troth I dare na venture, Sir. 


Where laughing love sae wanton swims 






I'm owre young, &c. 


My lady's gown, &c. 






n: Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 


My lady's dink, my lady's drest, „ 






Blavvs thro' the leafless timmer, Sir; 


The flower and fancy 0' the west; 






But if ye come this gate again. 


But the lassie that a man lo'es best, 






I'll aulder be gin simmer, Sir. 


that's the lass to make him blest. 






I'm owre young, &c. 


My lady's gown, &c. 






.-- 


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S 



IVHY THE DEUCE. 



247 



O AY MY WIFE SHE DANG 
ME. 



O ay my wife she dang me, 
An' aft my wife did bang me; 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 
Guid faith she'll soon o'ergang ye. 

On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I marry'd; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarry'd. 

Some sa'r o' comfort still at last, 
When a' thir days are done, man. 

My pains o' hell on earth are past, 
I'm sure o' bliss aboon, man. 
O ay my wife, &c. 

THE BANKS OF NITH. 



To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains, 
Where late wi' careless thought I 
rang'd. 

Though prest wi' care and sunk in wOe, 
To thee I l)ring a heart unchang'd. 

I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 
Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear; 

For there he rov'd that brake my heart. 
Yet to that heart, ah, still how dear ! 



BONIE PEG. 

As I came in by our gate end. 

As day was waxin' weary, 
O vvha came tripping down the street, 

But bonie Peg, my dearie ! 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 
Wi' nae proportion wanting. 

The Queen of Love did never move 
Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands, we took the sands 

Adown yon winding river; 
And, oh I that hour and broomy bower, 

Can I forget it ever? 



O LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, 
LASS. 



O lay thy loof in mine, lass. 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass. 

And swear in thy white hand, lass, 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

A SLAVE to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae; 
But now he is my deadly fae. 
Unless thou be my ain. 
O lay thy loof, &c. 

There's monie a lass has broke my rest. 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best; 
But thou art Queen within my breast. 
For ever to remain. 

O lay thy loof, &c. 

O GUID ALE COMES. 



O guid ale comes, r.nd guid ale goes, 
Guid ale gars me sell my hose. 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

I HAD sax owsen in a pleugh. 
They drew a' weel eneugh, 
I sell'd them a' just ane by ane; 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 

Guid ale bauds me bare and busy. 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 
Guid ale keeps my heart aboon. 
O guid ale comes, &c. 

O WHY THE DEUCE. 



EXTEMFORE. 



1782. 



WHY the deuce should I repine. 
And be an ill foreboder? 

I'm twenty-three, and five feet nine — 
I'll go and be a sodger. 

1 gat some gear wi' meikle care, 

I held it weel thegither; 
But now it's gane and something mair, 
I'll go and be a sodger. 



^ 



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THE FIVE CARLINS. 



If 



POLLY STEWART. 

Tune — '^Ye're welcome, Charlie Stewart.'" 
CHORUS. 

O lovely Polly Stewart, 
O charming Polly Stewart, 

There's ne'er a flower that blooms in 
May, 
That's half so fair as thou art. 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's, 
And art can ne'er renew it; 

But worth and truth eternal youth 
Will gie to Polly Stewart. 

May he, whase arms shall fauld thy 
charms. 
Possess a leal and true heart; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 
He grasps in Polly Stewart. 
O lovely, &c. 

ROBIN shurp: in hairst. 



Robin shure in hairst, 

I sure wi' him, 
Fient a heuk had I, 

Yet I stack by him. 

I GAED up to Dunse, 

To warp a wab o' plaiden, 
At his daddie's yett, 

Wha met me but Robin. 
Was na Robin bauld, 

Tho' I was a cotter, 
Play'd me sick a trick 

And me the eller's dochter? 

Robin promis'd me 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 
Robin shure, iS:c. 

THE FIVE CARLINS. 

AN ELECTION BALL.\D. 1789. 

Tune — " Chevy Chase." 
Thkke were five Carlins in the south, 

They fell upon a scheme. 
To send a lad to Lon'on town 

To bring us tidings hame. 



Not only bring us tidings hame, 

But do our errands there. 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith . 

Might be that laddie's share. 

There was Maggie by the banks o' 
Nith, 

A dame wi' pride eneugh ; 
And Majorie o' the monie Lochs, 

A Carlin old an' teugh. 

And blinkin Bess o' Annandale, 
That dwells near Solway side, 

And whiskey Jean that took her gill 
In Galloway so wide. 

An' auld black Joan frae Creighton 
peel, 

O' gipsy kith an' kin. 
Five wighter Carlins were na foun' 

The south kintra within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town 

They met upon a day, 
And monie a Knight and monie a 
Laird, 

That errand fain would gae. 

O ! monie a Knight and monie a Laird. 

This errand fain would gae; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

O ! ne'er a ane but twae. 

The first ane was a belted Knight, 

Bred o' a border clan. 
An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

Might nae man him withstan' : 

And he wad do their errands weel 

And meikle he wad say, 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Wad Ijid to him guid day. 

Then neist came in a sodger youth 
And spak wi' modest grace, 

An' he wad gae to Lon'on town, 
If sae their pleasure was. 

He wad na hecht them courtly gift. 
Nor meikle speech pretend; 

But he would hecht an honest heart 
Wad ne'er desert his friend. 



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THE LASS THAT MADE THE BED TO ME. 



249 



Xow wham to choose and wham refuse, 

To strife thae Carlins fell; 
For some had gentle folk to please, 

And some wad please themsel. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Mego' Nith, 

An' she spak out \vi' pride. 
An' she wad send the sodger youth 

Whatever might betide. 

Vox the auld guidman o' Lon'on court 

She didna care a pin, 
But she wad send the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son. 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale : 

A deadly aith she's ta'en, 
That she wad vote tire border Knight, 

Tho' she should vote her lane. 

For far afF fowls hae feathers fair, 
An' fools o' change are fain : 

But I hae tried the border Knight, 
ril try him yet again. 

Says auld black Joan frae Creighton 
peel, 

A Carlin stoor and grim, 
The auld guidman or young guidman, 

For me may sink or swim ! 

For fools may freit o' right and wrang. 
While knaves laugh them to scorn : 

But the sodgers' friends hae blavvn the 
best, 
Sae he shall hear the horn. 

Then whisky Jean spak o'er her drink. 

Ye weel ken kimmers a' 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court. 

His back's been at the wa'. 

And monie a friend that kiss'd his caup. 

Is now a frammit wight ; 
But it's ne'er sae wi' whisky Jean, — 

We'll send the border Knight. 

Then slow raise Marjorie o' the Lochs, 
And wrinkled was her brow; 

Her ancient weed was russet gray. 
Her auld Scots bluid was true. 



There's some great folks set light by me, 

I set as light by them; 
But I will send to Lon'on town, 

Wha I lo'e best at hame. 

So how this weighty plea will end 

Nae mortal wight can tell; 
God grant the King and ilka man 

May look weel to himsel' ! 

THE DEUK'S DANG O'ER 
MY DADDIE. 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout. 

The deuk's dang o'er my daddie, O ! 
The fient ma care, quo' the feirie auld 
wife. 

He was but a paidlin body, O ! 
He paidles out, and he paidles in. 

An' he paidles late and early, O; 
This seven lang years I hae lien by his 
side, 

An' he is but a fusionless carlie, O. 

() haud your tongue, my feirie auld 
wife, 

haud your tongue now, Nansie, O 
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye. 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, O ; 
I've seen the day ye butter'd my brose 

And c^uddl'd me late and earlie, O; 
But downa do's come o'er me now. 

And, oh, I find it sairly, O ! 

THE L.^SS THAT MADE THE 
BED TO ME. 

When Januar' wind was blavving cau»J 

As to the north 1 took my way, 
The mirksome night did me enfauld, 

1 knew na where to lodge till day. 

By my good luck a maid I met. 
Just in the middle o' my care : 

And kindly she did me invite 
To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 

And thank'd her for her courtesie; 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid. 
And bade her mak a bed to me. 





250 



THERE WAS A BONIE LASS. 



She made the bed baith large and wide, i 
Wi' twa white liands she spread it 
down; | 

She put the cup to her rosy lips, 

And drank, " Young man, now sleep 
ye soun." 

She snatch'd the candle in her hand, 
And frae my chamber went wi' speed; 

But I call'd her quickly back again 
To lay some mair Ijelow my head. 

A cod she laid below my head, 
And served me wi' due respect ; 

And to salute her wi' a kiss, 
I put my arms about her neck. 

" Hand aff your hands, young man," 
she says, 

" And dinna sae uncivil be : 
If ye hae onie love for me, 

O wrang na my virginitie ! '" 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 
Her teeth were like the ivorie; 

Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine. 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

Her bosom was the driven snaw, 
Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see; 

Her limbs the polish'd marble stane, 
The lass that made the bed to me. 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again. 
And aye she wist na what to say; 

I laid her between me and the wa', — 
The lassie thought na lang till day. 

Upon the morrow when we rose, 
I thank'd her for her courtesie; 

But aye .she blush'd, and aye she sigh'd. 
And said, " Alas ! ye've ruin'd me." 

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne. 
While the tear stood twinkling in her 
ee; 

I said, "My lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye ay shall make the bed to me." 

She took her mither's Holland sheets, 
And made them a' in sarks to me : 

ISlythe and merry may she be. 

The lass that made the bed to me. 



The bonie lass made the bed to me, 
The braw lass made the bed to me : 

I'll ne'er forget till the day I die. 
The lass that made the bed to me ! 



THE UNION. 

Tune — " Such a parcel of rogues in a 
nation." 

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 

Fareweel our ancient glory ! 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 

Sae fam'd in martial story ! 
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands. 

And Tweed rins to the ocean. 
To mark where England's province 
stands; 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 

What guile or force could not subdue, 

Through many warlike ages. 
Is wrought now by a coward few, 

P\ir hireling traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain. 

Secure in valour's station. 
But English gold has been our bane ; 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation 1 

O would, or had I seen the day 

That treason thus could sell us. 
My auld grey head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace ! 
But pith and power, till my last hour 

I'll mak this declaration. 
We're bought and sold for English gold : 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 

THERE WAS A BONIE LASS. 
There was a bonie lass, and a Ijonie, 
bonie lass. 
And she lo'ed her bonie laddie dear; 
Till war's lo'ud alarms tore her laddie 
frae her arms, 
Wi' monie a sigh and tear. 

Over sea, over shore, where the cannons 
loudly roar. 
He still was a stranger to fear : 
And nocht could him quell, or his 
bosom assail. 
But the bonie lass he lo'ed sae dear. 



^ 



CRAIGIE-BURN- WOOD. 



251 



MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT 
GAY. 

Tune — " Highlander's lament." 
My Harry was a gallant gay, 

Fu' stately strade he on the plain ! 
But now he's banish'd far away, 

I'll never see him back again. 

CHORUS. 

O for him back again, 
O for him back again, 

gie a' Knockhaspie's land, 



When a' the lave gae to their 
bed, 
I wander dovvie \ip the glen; 
I sit me down and greet my fill. 
And ay I wish him back again. 
O for him, \c. 

O were some villains hangit high, 
And ilka body had their ain. 

Then I might see the joyfu' sight, 
My Highland Harry back again ! 
O for him, &c. 



For Highland Harry back again. 

TIBBIE DUNBAR. 

Tune — " Johnny M'Gill." 

O WILT thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 

wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, or be drawn in a car, 
Or walk by my side, O sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 

1 care na thy daddie, his lands and his money, 
I care na thy kin, sae high and sae lordly : 
But say thou wilt hae me for better for waur, 
And come in thy coatie, sweet Tibbie Dunbar. 

WEE WILLIE. 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet; 

Peel a willow-wand, to be him boots and jacket : 

The rose upon the briar will be him trouse and doublet. 

The rose upon the briar will be him trouse and doublet ! 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet; 

Twice a lily flower will be him sark and cravat; 

Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. 

Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. 



CRAIGIE-BURN-WOOD. 



CHORIS. 

;, dearie. 



jeyond thee. 




Beyond the 
dearie. 

And O to be lying beyond thee, 
O sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep. 

That's laid in the bed beyond thee. 

Sweet closes the evening on Craigie- 
burn-wood. 
And blythely awakens the morrow ; 
But the pride of the spring in the Craigie- 
burn-wood 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 
Beyond thee, &c. 



I see the spreading leaves and flowers, 

I hear the wild birds singing; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me. 

While care my heart is wringing. 
Beyond thee, lK:c. 
I canna tell, I maun na tell, 

I dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart 

If I conceal it langer. 

Beyond thee, &c. 

I see thee gracefu', straight and tall, 
I see thee sweet and bonie. 

But oh, what will my torments be, 
If thou refuse thy Johnie I 
Beyond thee, &c 










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t 


''_ 252 AS I WAS A WANDERING. \\ 


To see thee in anither's arms, 


AS DOWN THE BURN THEY 






In love to lie and languish, 


TOOK THEIR WAY. 








'Twad be my dead, that will be seen. 








J 


J Mv heart wad burst wi' anguish. 


As down the burn they took their way, J 






Beyond thee, &c. 


And thro' the flowery dale; 
His cheeks to hers he aft did lay, 
And love was ay the tale. 






But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine. 








Say, thou lo'es nane before me; 


With " Mary, when shall we return, 






An' a' my days o' hfe to come, 


Sic pleasure to renew?" 






I'll gratefully adore thee. 


Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn. 






Beyond thee, &c. 


And ay shall follow you." 

LADY ONLIE. 

Tune — " Ruffian's rant." 






HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN 


A' the lads 0' Thornie-bank, 






WATER ! 


When they gae to the shore 0' Buck, 
They'll step in an' tak' a pint 






Tune — " The job of journey-work." 


Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 
Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 






Altho' my back be at the wa'. 


Brews gude ale at shore 0' Buck y ; 






And tho' he be the fautor; 


I wish her sale for her gude ale, 






Altho' my back be at the wa', 


The best on a' the shore 0' Bucky. 






Yet, here's his health in water ! 








O ! wae gae by his wanton sides. 


Her house sae bien, her curch sae clean 






Sae brawlie he could flatter; 


I wat she is a dainty chucky; 






Till for his sake I'm slighted sair. 


And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 






And dree the kintra clatter. 


Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 






But tho' my back l>e at the wa', 


Lady Onlie, honest Lucky, 






And tho' he be the fautor; 


Brews gude ale at shore 0' Bucky; 






But tho' my back l)e at the wa'. 


I wish her sale for her gude ale, 






Yet, here's his health in water ! 


The best on a' the shore 0' Bucky. 






AS I WAS A WANDERING. 






Tune — " Rhui meudial mo mhealladh." 






As I was a vvand'ring ae midsummer e'enin', 






The pipers and youngsters were making their game. 






Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover. 






Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour again. 






Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae wi' him; 






I may be distress'd, but I winna complain; 






I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 






My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 








I could na get sleeping till dawin' for greetin'. 

The tears trickled down like the hail and the rain; 

Had I na got greetin', my heart wad a broken. 
For, oh : love forsaken's a tormenting pain. 

: J 






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'. COME BOAT ME a ER TO CHARLIE. 253 \ 


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Altho' he has left me for 


greed 0' the siller. 






I dinna envy him the 


gains he can win; 










I rather wad bear a' the 


lade 0' my sorrow 


I 






^ 


'^ Than ei'er hae acted sae faithless to him. ^J 








Weel, since he has left me, may pleasure gae \vi' him, 






I may be distress'd, but I winiia complain; 






I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 






Mv heart it >hall never be broken for ane. 






BANNOCKS 0' BARLEY. 


Our sad decay in Church and .State 
Surpasses my descriving; 






Tune—" TAe Killogie." 


The Whigs came o'er us for a curse. 






Bannucks o' bear meal, 


And we hae done with thriving. 






Bannocks o' Barley; 








Here's to the Highlandman's 


Grim vengeance lang has ta'en a nap. 






Bannocks o' barley. 


But we may see him wauken; 






Wha in a brulzie 


Gude help the day when royal heads 






Will first cry a parley? 


Are hunted like a maukin. 






Never the lads wi' 








The bannocks o' barley. 


Awa Whigs, awa ! 
Awa Whigs, awa ! 






Bannocks o' bear meal, 


Ye're but a pack 0' traitor louns, 






Bannocks o' Barley; 


Ye'U do nae gude at a'. 






Here's to the lads wi' 








The bannocks o' barley; 
Wha in his wae-days 


PEG-A-RAMSEY. 






Were loyal to Charlie? 


Tune — "Cflz^W is the c'eiiin' blast." 






Wha but the lads wi' 


Cauld is the e'enin' blast 






The bannocks o' barley. 


O' Boreas o'er the pool. 
And dawin' it is dreary 






OUR THRISSLES FLOUR- 


When birks are bare at Yule. 






ISHED FRESH AND FAIR. 


bitter blaws the e'enin' blast 






Tune — ".-Jwrt Whigs, awa." 


When bitter bites the frost. 
And in the mirk and dreary drift 






CHORUS. 


The hills and glens are lost. 






Awa Whigs, awa ! 








Awa Whigs, awa! 


Ne'er sae murky blew the night 






Ye're but a pack o' traitor louns, 


That drifted o'er the hill, 






Ye'U do nae good at a'. 


But bonie Peg-a- Ramsey 
Gat grist to her mill. 






Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair. 






And bonie bloom'd our roses; 
But Whigs came like a frost in June, 


COME BOAT ME O'ER TO 






And wither'd a' our posies. 


CHARLIE. 








n Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust — 


Tune — " O'er the water to Charlie." 










Deil blin' them wi' the stoure o't; 


Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 










And write their names in his black 


Come boat me o'er to Charlie ; 










beuk. 


I'll gie John Ross another bawbee, 










Wha gae the Whigs the power o't. 


To boat me o'er to Charlie. 








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1 



254 



THE LASS OF ECCLEFECHAN. 



We'll o'er the water and o'er the 
sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie; 
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather 
and go, 
And live or die wi' Charlie. 

I lo'e weel my Charlie's name, 
Tho' some there he abhor him : 

But O, to see auld Nick gaun hame. 
And Charlie's facs before hrni ! 

I swear and vow by moon and stars. 

And sun that shines so early, 
If 1 had twenty thousand lives, 
I'd die as aft for Charlie. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the 
sea, 
We'll o'er the water to Charlie; 
Come weal, come woe, we'll gather 

and go. 
And live or die with Charlie ! 

BR AW L.\DS OF GALLA 
WATER. 

Tune — " Galla Water." 
CHORUS. 

Braw, braw lads of C^alla Water; 

O braw lads of Galla water ! 
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee. 

And follow my love through the 
water. 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
Sae bonie blue her een, my dearie; 

Sae white her teeth, sae sweet her mou', 
The mair I kiss she's ay my dearie. 

O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae. 
O'er yon moss amang the heather; 

I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee. 

And follow my love through the water. 

Down amang the broom, the broom, 

Down amang the broom, my dearie, 
The lassie lost a silken snood. 

That cost her mony a blirt and bleary. 
Braw, braw lads of Galla Water; 

O braw lads of Galla Water : 
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee, 
And follow my love through the 
water. 



COMING THROUGH THE 
RYE. 



ining throHgk the rye." 

through the rye, poor 



Tune — " L 
CoMiNc; 
body, 

Coming through the rye. 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry ; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body — 
Coming through the rye; 

Gin a body kiss a body — 
Need a body cry? 

Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the glen, 
Gin a body kiss a body — 

Need the world ken? 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body; 

Jenny's seldom dry; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 

Coming through the rye. 



THE LASS OF ECCLEFE- 
CHAN. 

Tune — " Jacky Latin." 

Gat ye me, O gat ye me, 

O gat ye me wi' naething? 
Rock and reel, and spinnin' wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour, my gutcher has 

A hich house and a laigh ane, 
A' forbye, my bonie sel'. 

The toss of Ecclefechan. 

baud your tongue now, Luckie Laing 

baud your tongue and jauner; 

1 held the gate till you I met. 

Syne I began to wander : 
I tint my whistle and my sang, 

1 tint my peace and pleasure; 

But your green graff, now, Luckie 
Laing, 
Wad airt me to niv treasure. 



# 




Coming til rough the rye." 



Pane 254. 



HER D ADD IE FORBAD. 



255 



THE SLAVE'S LAMENT. 

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did me entliral, 

For the lands of Virginia, O; 
Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see it more, 

And alas I am weary, weary, O ! 

All on that charming coast is no bitter snow or frost, 

Like the lands of Virginia, O; 
There streams for ever flow, and there flowers for ever blow, 

yVnd alas I am weary, weary, O ! 

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge I fear, 

In the lands of Virginia, O; 
And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, bitter tear, 

And alas I am weary, weary, O ! 



HAD I THE WYTE. 

Tune — " Had I the ivyte she hade me." 
Mad I the wyte, had I the wyte, 

Had I the wyte she bade me; 
She watch'd me by the hie-gate side. 

And up the loan she shaw'd me; 
And when I wadna venture in, 

A coward loon she ca'd me; 
Had kirk and state been in the gate, 

I lighted when she bade me. 
Sae craftilie she took me ben. 

And bade me make nae clatter; 
" For our ramgunshoch glum gudeman 

Is out and ower the water : " 
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace, 

When I did kiss and dawte her. 
Let him be planted in my place. 

Syne say I was the fautor. 
Could I for shame, could I for shame. 

Could I for shame refused her? 
And wadna manhood been to blame, 

Had I unkindly used her? 
He clawed her wi' the ripplin-kame. 

And blue and bluidy bruised her; 
When sic a husband was frae hame, 

What wife but had excused her? 
I dighted ay her een sae blue. 

And bann'd the cruel randy; 
And weel I wat her willing mou' 

Was een like sugar-candy. 
A gloamin-shot it was I trow, 

I lighted on the Monday; 
But I cam through the Tysday's dew. 

To wanton Willie's brandv. 



HEE BALOU. 

Tune — " The Highland balou." 
Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, 
Picture o' the great Clanronald; 
Brawlie kens our wanton chief 
Wha got my young Highland thief. 
Leeze me on thy l:)onie craigie. 
An' thou live, thou'li steal a naigie : 
Travel the country thro' and thro'. 
And bring hame a Carlisle cow. 
Thro' the Lawlands, o'er the border, 
Weel, my babie, may thou furder : 
Herry the louns o' the laigh countree, 
Syne to the Highlands hame to me. 

HER DADDIE FORBAD. 

Tune — " Jnmpin Johti." 
Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad; 

Forbidden she wadna be : 
She wadna trow't, the browst she brew'd 
Wad taste sae bitterlie. 

The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonie lassie. 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
Beguiled the bonie lassie. 
A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf. 

And thretty gude shillin's and three; 
A very good tocher, a cotter-man's 
dochter, 
The lass with the bonie l^lack ee. 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 

Beguiled the bonie lassie. 
The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
Beguiled the bonie lassie. 



T=^' 





THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 



HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, 
MY BONIE LASS. 

Tune — "Laggan Burn." 
Here's to thy health, my bonie lass, 

Gude night, and joy be wi' thee ; 
I'll come nae mair to thy bower door. 

To tell thee that I lo'e thee. 

dinna think, my pretty pink. 
That I can live without thee : 

1 vow and swear I dinna care 

How lang ye look about ye. 

Thou'rt ay sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry; 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time hae I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frae wedlock to delay thee; 
1 )epending on some higher chance — 

But fortune may betray thee. 

I ken they scorn my low estate, 

But that doe^ never grieve me; 
But I'm as free as any he, 

Sma' siller will relieve me. 
I count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae lang as I'll enjoy it : 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want, 

As lang's I get employment. 

But far afif fowls hae feathers fair. 

And ay until ye try them : 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may prove waur than I am. 
But at twal at night, when the moon 
shines bright, 

My dear, I'll come and see thee; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel 

Nae travel makes him weary. 

HEY, THE DUSTY MILLER. 

Tune — " The Dusty Miller." 
Hey, the dusty miller. 
And his dusty coat; 
He will win a shilling, 
Or he spend a groat. 
Dusty was the coat, 

Dusty was the colour, 
Dusty was the kiss 

That I got frae the miller. 



Hey, the dusty miller, 
And his dusty sack; 
Leeze me on the calling 
Fills the dusty peck. 
Fills the dusty peck, 

Brings the dusty siller; 
I wad gie my coatie 
For the dusty miller. 



THE CARDIN' O'T. 

Tune — " Salt Fish and Diatiplings." 

I CO FT a stane o' haslock woo', 

To make a coat to Johnny o't; 
For Johnny is my only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't; 

The warpin' o't, the winnm' o't; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the lynin' o't. 

For though his locks be lyart gray. 

And though his brow be held aboon; 
Yet I hae seen him on a day. 
The pride of a' the parishen. 
The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't. 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat. 
The tailor staw the lynin' o't. 

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 

Tune — " Maggie Lauder." 
I MARRIED with a scolding wife 

The fourteenth of November; 
She made me weary of my life, 

By one unruly member. 
I-ong did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended ; 
But, to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

We lived full one-and-twenty years 

A man and wife together; 
At length from me her course she steer'd 

And gone I know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

I speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 





JT IS NA, JEAN, TIIY BOX IE FACE. 




257 



Her body is bestowed well, 

A handsome grave does hide her; 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The deil would ne'er abide her. 
I rather think she is aloft. 

And imitating thunder; 
For why, — methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder. 



THENIEL MENZIE'S BONIE 
MARY. 

Tune — " The Ruffians rant." 

Ix coming ijy the brig o' Dye, 

At Darlet we a blink did tarry; 
As day was davvin in the sky 

We drank a health to bonie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary. 

Her een sae bright, her brow sae white. 

Her haffet locks as brown's a berry. 
An' ay they dimpled wi' a smile 
The rosy cheeks o' bonie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary. 

We lap an' danced the lee-lang day, 
Till piper lads were wae an' weary. 
But CharHe gat the spring tc pay 
For kissin' Theniel's bonie Mary. 
Theniel Menzie's bonie Mary, 

Theniel Menzie's bonie ]\Iary; 
Charlie Gregor tint his plaidie, 
Kissin' Theniel's bonie Marv. 



THE FAREWELL. 

Tune — " It ivas a' for oicr rzgki/u King." 
Tr was a' for our rightfu' King, 

We left fair Scotland's strand; 
It was a' for our rightfu' King 

We e'er saw Irish land. 

My dear; 

We e'er saw Irish land. 



Now a' is done that men can do, 

And a' is done in vain ; 
My love and native land farewell, 

For I maun cross the main. 
My dear; 

lor I maun cross the main. 

He turn'd him right and round about 
1 Upon the Irish shore; 
And gae his bridle-reins a shake, 
With adieu for evermore. 
My dear; 
With adieu for evermore. 

The sodger from the wars returns. 

The sailor frae the main; 
But I hae parted frae my love, 

Never to meet again, 

My dear; 

Never to meet again. 

When day is gane, and night is come, 
And a' folk bound to sleep; 

I think on him that's far awa'. 
The lee-lang night, and weep, 

My dear; 
The lee-lang night, and weep. 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONIE 
FACE. 

Tune — " The Maid's Conpiaint." 
It is na, Jean, thy bonie face. 

Nor shape that I admire. 
Although thy beauty and thy grace 

.Might weel awake desire. 
Something, in ilka part o' thee, 

To praise, to love, I find; 
But dear as is thy form to me, 

Still dearer is thy mind. 

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, 

Nor stronger in my breast. 
Than if I canna mak thee sae, 

At least to see thee blest. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee : 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live. 

For thee I'd bear to die. 



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- 258 MY HEAR 7' 


WAS ANCE. 




JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 


I rue the day I sought her, 0, 




Tune— " Jamie, come try me." 
^ CHORUS. 


I rue the day I sought her, O; 
Wha gets her needs na say she's woo'd, 




*" 




But he may say he's bought her, O I 






Jamie, come try me, 








Jamie, come try me ; 








If thou would win my love, 


Come, draw a drap 0' the best o't yet; 






Jamie, come try me. 


Come, draw a drap 0' the best o't yet; 






If thou should ask my love. 


Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, 
But here I never miss'd it yet. 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't. 
We're a' dry wi' drinking o't; 






Could I deny thee? 






If thou would win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 






The minister kiss'd the fiddler's wife, 






If thou should kiss me, love, 


An' could na preach for thinkin' o't. 






Wha could espy thee? 








If thou wad be my love, 








Jamie, come try me. 








Jamie, come try me, &c. 


MY HEART WAS ANCE. 

Tune — " To the weavers gin ye go." 






LANDLADY, COUNT THE 








LAWIN. 


My heart was ance as blythe and free 
As simmer days were lang. 






Tune — " Hey titlti, taiti" 


But a bonie, westliri weaver lad 






Landlady, count the lawin. 


Has gart me change my sang. 






The day is near the dawin; 


To the weavers gin ye go, fa-r 






Ve're a' blind drunk, boys, 


maids. 






And I'm but jolly fou. 


To the weavers gin ye go; 






Hey tutti, taiti, 


I rede you right gang ne'er at 






How tutti, taiti — 


night. 






Wha's fou now? 


To the weavers gin ye go. 






Cog an' ye were ay fou, 








Cog an' ye were ay fou, 


My mither sent me to the town, 






I wad sit and sing to you 


To warp a plaiden wAh; 






If ye were ay fou. 


But the weary, weary warpin o't 






Weel may ye a' be ! 


Has gart me sigh and sab. 






Ill may we never see ! 








God bless the King, boys, 


A bonie westlin weaver lad 






And the companie ! 


Sat working at his loom; 






Hey tutti, taiti, 


He took my heart as wi' a net. 






How tutti, taiti — 


In every knot and thrum. 






Wha's fou now? 


I sat beside my warpin-wheel, 






MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A 


And ay I ca'd it roun' ; 






LASSIE YET. 


But every shot and every knock. 
My heart it gae a stoun. 






T Tine — " Lady BadiJiscoth's reel." 








My love she's but a lassie yet; 


The moon was sinking in the west 






My love she's but a lassie yet; 


Wi' visage pale and wan. 






We'll let her stand a year or twa, 


As my bonie westlin weaver lad 






She'll no be half sae saucy yet. 


Convoy'd me through the glen- 






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THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. 



259 



But what was said, or what was done, 

Shame fa' me gin I tell; 
But oh ! I fear the kintra soon 

Will ken as weel's niysel. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maids 
To the weavers gin ye go; 

I rede you right gang ne'er at night, 
To the weavers gin ye go. 



LOVELY DAVIES. 



HOW shall I, unskilfu', try 
The poet's occupation. 

The tunefu' powers, in happy hours. 

That \\'hisper inspiration ? 
Even they maun dare an effort mair. 

Than aught they ever gave us, 
Or they rehearse, in equal verse. 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 

Each eye it cheers, when she appears. 

Like Phoebus in the morning, 
When past the shower, and ev'ry flower 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, 

When winter-bound the wave is; 
Sae droops our heart when we maun part 

Frae charming lu\'ely Da\ies. 

Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift. 

That maks us mair than princes; 
A scepter'd hand, a King's command, 

Is in her darting glances : 
The man in arms, 'gainst female charms. 

Even he her willing slave is; 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

Of conquering, lovely Davies. 

My Muse to dream of such a theme, 
Her feeble powers surrender; 

The eagle's gaze alone surveys 
The sun's meridian splendour : 

1 wad in vain essay the strain. 
The deed too daring brave is; 

I'll drap the lyre, and mute admire 
The charms o' lovelv Davies. 



KENMURE'S ON AND AWA. 

Tune — " O Kemmire' s on and aiua, Willie." 
O KKNMt^RE's on and awa, Willie ! 

O Kenmure's on and awa ! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord 

That ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie ! 

Success to Kenmure's band; 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie I 
Here's Kenmure's health in wine; 

There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's 
Nor yet o' Gordon's line. [tilude, 

O Kenmure's lads are men, Willie ! 

O Kenmure's lads are men; 
Their hearts and swords are metal true — 

And that their faes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 

They'll live or die wi' fame; 
But soon, wi' sounding victorie. 

May Kenmure's lord come hame- 

Here's him that's far awa, Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa; 
And here's the flower that I love best — 

The rose that's like the snaw ! 

THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. 

TuNE^" O jiwiDii ami go." 
CHORUS. 
O mount and go, 

Blount and make you ready; 
O mount and go, 

And be the Captain's Lady. 

When the drums do beat, 

And the cannons rattle. 
Thou shalt sit in state, 

And see thy love in battle. 

When the vanquish'd foe 

Sues for peace and quiet, 
To the shades we'll go. 

And in lo\'e enjoy it. 

O mount and go. 

Mount and make you ready; 
O mount and go. 

And he the Captain's Lady. 




26o 



MERRY HAE I BEEN, TEETH LY' A HECKLE. 



LADY MARY ANN. 

Tune — " Cragtoivji^s groiviiig.'''' 
O, Lady Mary Ann 

Looks o'er the castle wa', 
She saw three bonie boys 

Playing at the ba'; 
The youngest he was 

The flower amang them a'; 
My bonie laddie's young. 

But he's growin' yet. 
father ! O father I 

An' ye think it fit, 
We'll send hiui a year 

To the college yet : 
We'll sew a green ribbon 

Round about his hat, 
And that will let them ken 

He's to marry yet. 
Lady Mary Ann 

Was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell, 

Bonie was its hue ! 
And the langer it blossom'd 

The sweeter it grew; 
For the lily in the bud 

Will be bonier yet. 
Young Charlie Cochran 

Was the sprout of an aik; 
Bonie and bloomin' 

And straught was its make : 
The sun took delight 

To shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag 

O' the forest yet. 
The simmer is gane 

When the leaves they were green, 
And the days are awa 

That we hae seen : 
But far better days 

I trust will come again. 
For my bonie laddie's young, 

But he's growin' yet. 



THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S 
LAMENl". 

Oh I I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Without a penny in my purse, 

To buy a meal to me. 

It was nae sae in the Highland hills, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie I 
Nae woman in the country wide 

St .i happy was as me. 

For then I had a scor? o' kye, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
P'eeding on yon hills so high, 

And giving milk to me. 

And there I liad three score o' yovves, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping on yon bonie knowes, 

And casting woo' to me. 

I was the happiest of the clan, 

Sair, sair may I repine ; 
Yox Donald was the brawest lad, 

And Donald he was mine. 

Till Charlie Stewart cam at last, 

Sae far to set us free; 
My Donald's arm was wanted then. 

For Scotland and for me. 

I'heir waefu' fate what need I tell, 
Right to the wrang did yield : 

My Donald and his country fell 
Upon Culloden's field. 

Oh ! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the world wide, 

Sae wretched now as me. 





MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHIN' A HECKLE. 

Tune — " Lord Breadalbane's MarchT 

O MERRY hae I been teethin' a heckle. 
And merry hae I been shapin' a spoon; 

O merry hae I been cloutin a kettle. 
And kissin' my Katie when a' was done 





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U MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET. 



O a' the laiig day I ca' at my jiammer, 
An' a' tlie lang day I whistle and sing, 

A' the lang night I cuddle my kimmer, 
An' a' the lang night as happy's a King. 

Bitter in dool I lickit my wijinins, 

O' marrying Be^s, to gie her a slave : 
Bless'd be the hour she cool'd in her linnens, 

And lilythe be the bird that sings on her gruve. 
Come to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

An' come to my arms, and kiss me again I 
Drunken or sober, here's to thee, Katie ! 

And bless'd be the day I did it again. 



RATTLIN', ROARIN' WILLIE. 

Tune — " Ratilin, roarin IVillie." 

O RAITLIN', roarin' Willie, 

O, he held to the fair, 
An' for to sell his tiddle, 

An' buy some other ware; 
But parting wi' his tiddle, 

The saut tear blin't his ee; 
And rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 

O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 
O sell your fiddle sae fine; 



O Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

And buy a pint o' wine ! 
If I should sell my fiddle, 

The warl' would think I was mad ; 
For mony a rantin' day 

My fiddle and I hae had. 
As I cam by Crochallan, 

I cannily keekit ben — 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie 

Was sitting at yon board en', 
Sitting at yon board en'. 

And amang guid companie; 
Rattlin', roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me! 



O MALLY'S MEEK, MALLY'S SWEET. 

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, ' 

Mally's every way complete. 
As I was walking up the street, 

A barefit maid I chanced to meet; 
But O the road was very hard 

For that fair maiden's tender feet. 

It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel laced up in silken shoon, 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit 
Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

Her yellow hair, beyond compare. 

Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck, 
And her two eyes, like stars in skies. 

Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 
O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare, Mally's fair, 

Mally's every way complete. 



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262 



THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 



SAE FAR AWA. 

Tunb;— " Dalkeith Maiden Bridge." 
O SAD and heavy should I part, 

But for her sake sae far awa; 
Unknowing what my way may thwart 

I\Iy native land sae far awa. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art, 

That form'd this Fair sae far awa, 
Gie body strength, then I'll ne'er start 

At :his my way sae far awa. 

How true is love to pure desert. 

So love to her, sae far awa : 
And nochi can heal my bosom's smart. 

While, oh ! she is sae far awa. 
\ane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but her's, sae far awa; 
But fairer never touch'd a heart 

Than her's, the fair sae far awa. 



O STEER HER UP. 

Tune — ' ' O steer her up, and haudher gau>, 
O STEER her up, and haud her gaun - 

Her mother's at the mill, jo; 
And gin she winna take a man, 

E'en let her take her will, jo : 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca' another gill, jo, 
And gin she take the thing amiss. 

E'en let her tlyte her fill, jo. 

O steer her up, and be na blate. 

An' gin she tak it ill, jo. 
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, 

And time nae langer spill, jo : 
Ne'er break your heart for ae rebate, 

But think upon it still, jo; 
Then gin the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'U fin' anither will, jo. 



O, WHAR DID YE GET. 

Tune — " Bonie Dundee." 
O, \VH.A.R did ye get that hauver meal bannock? 

O silly blind body, O dinna ye see ? 
I gat it frae a brisk young sodger laddie, 

Between .Saint Johnston and bonie Dundee. 
O gin I saw the laddie that gae me't ! 

Aft has he doudled me on his knee; 
May Heaven protect my bonie Scotch laddie. 

And send him safe hame to his babie and me ! 

My blessin's apon thy sweet wee lippie. 

My blessin's upon thy bonie e'e brie ! 
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, 

Thou's ay the dearer and dearer to me I 
But I'll big a bower on yon bonie banks, 

Where Tay rins wimplin' by sae clear ; 
And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine. 

And mak thee a man like thy daddie dear. 

THE FETE CHAMPETRE. 

Tune — ■' Killiecrankie." 




O WHA will to Saint Stephen's house. 

To do our errands there, man? 
O wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man? 
Or will we send a man-o'-law? 

Or will we send a sodger? 
( )r him 'vha led o'er Scotland a' 

The meikle Ursa-Major? 



Come, will ye court a noble lord, 

Or buy a score o' lairds, man? 
For worth and honour pawn their word, 

Their vote shall be Glencaird's, man ? 
Ane gies them coin, ane gies them wine, 

Anit'ier gies them clatter; 
Anbank, wha guess'd the ladies' taste, 

He gies a Fete Champetre. 





SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 



263 



When Love and Beauty heard the news, 

The gay green-woods amang, man ; 
Where gathering flowers and busking 
bowers, 
They heard the blacl<l)ird's sang, 
man ; 
A vow, they seal'd it with a iviss 

Sir Politics to fetter. 
As their's alone, the patent-bliss, 
To hold a Fete Champetre. 

Then mounted Mirth, ongleesome wing. 

O'er hill and dale she flew, man; 
Ilk wimpling burn, ilk crystal spring, 

Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man : 
She summon'd every social sprite, 

That sports by wood or water. 
On th' bonie banks of Ayr to meet, 

And keep this Fete Champetre. 

C'auld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew. 

Were bound to stakes like kye, man ; 
And Cynthia's car, o' silver fu', 

Clamb up the starry sky, man : 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams, 

Or down the current shatter; 
The western breeze steals through the 
trees, 

To view this Fete Champetre. 

How many a robe sae gaily floats ! 

What sparkling jewels glance, man ! 
To Harmony's enchanting notes. 

As moves the mazy dance, man ! 
The echoing wood, the winding flood, 

Like Paradise did glitter, 
When angels met, at Adam's yett. 

To hold their P'ete Champetre. 



When Politics came there, to mi.\ 

And make his ether-stane, man ! 
He circled round the magic ground, 

But entrance found he nane, man : 
He islush'd for shame, he quat his name, 

P'orsuore it, every letter, 
Wi' humble prayer to join and share 

This festive Fete Champetre. 



SIMMER'S A PLEAS.\NT 
TIME. 

Tune — ''Ay ivaiikin, O." 

Simmer's a pleasant time, 
Flow'rs of ev'ry colour : 
The water rins o'er the heugh. 
And I long for my true lover. 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and vvearie : 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

When I sleep I dream. 
When I wauk Pm eerie; 

Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the lave are sleeping; 
I think on my bonie lad 

And I bleer my een with greetin' 
Ay waukin O, 

Waukin still and wearie; 
Sleep I can get nane 

For thinking on my dearie. 



THE ELUDE RED ROSE AT YULE MAY BLAW. 

Tune — " To dauuton me." 

The blude red rose at Yule may blaw, 
The simmer lilies bloom in snaw, 
The frost may freeze the deepest sea; 
But an auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me s.ie young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing you ne'er shall see; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 




264 



THE COOPER a CUD DIE. 



For a' his meal and a' his maut, 
For a' his fresh beef and his saut, 
For a' his gold and white monie, 
An auld man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may buy him kye and yowes, 
His gear may buy him glens and knowes; 
But me he shall not buy nor fee, 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

He hirples iv/a. fauld as he dow, 
Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow, 
And the rain rains down frae his red bleer'd ee - 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me sae young, 
Wi' his fause heart and flatt'ring tongue. 
That IS the thing you ne'er shall see; 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 



The cooper 



Cuddie cam here 




THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. THE COOPER O' CUDDIE 

Tune — " If thon'lt play nie fair play." Tune — " Bab at the bowsto 

The boniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie. 
Wore a plaid and was fu' braw, 

Bonie Highland laddie 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonie laddie. Highland laddie, 
His royal heart was firm and true, 

Bonie Highland laddie. 

Trumpets sound and cannons roar, 

Bonie lassie, Lawland lassie. 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonie Lawland lassie. 
Cllory, Honour, now invite, 

Bonie lassie, Lawland lassie, 
For Freedom and my King to fight, 

Bonie Lawland lassie. 

The sun a backward course shall take, 

Bonie laddie, Highland laddie, 
Ere aught thy manly courage shake; 

Bonie Highland laddie. 
Go, for yoursel procure renown, 

Bonie laddie. Highland laddie. 
And for your lawful King his crown, 

Bonie Highland laddie I 



And ca'd the girrs out owre us a' — 
i And our gude-wife has gotten a ca' 

That anger'd the silly gude-man, O. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door; 
Behind the door, behind the door ; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door. 

And cover him under a mawn, O. 



He sought them out, he sought them in. 
Wi', Deil hae her ! and, Deil hae 

him ! 
But the body was sae doited and blin'. 
He wist na where he was gaun, O 

They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at 

morn, 
Till our gude-man has gotten the scorn ; 
On ilka brow she's planted a horn. 

And swears that they shall stan', O. 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 
Behind the door, behind the door; 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 

And cover him under a mawn, O. 



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NITHDALE'S WELCOME HAME. 








The noble Maxwells and their powers 


The' stars in skies may disappear, 














Are coming o'er the border, 


And angry tempests gather; 














And they'll gae bigg Terreagle's towers, 


The happy hour may soon be near 




" 








An' set them a' in order. 


That brings us pleasant weather : 










And they declare Terreagle's fair. 


The weary night o' care and grief 










For then- abode they choose it; 


May hae a joyful morrow; 










There's no a heart in a' the land. 


So dawning day has brought relief 


_ 








But's lighter at the news o't. 


Fareweel our night o' sorrow ! 










THE TAILOR. 










Tune — " The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimhles an' a'. " 










The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'. 










The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'; 










The blankets were thin, and the sheets they were sma', 










The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles an' a'. 










The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill, 










The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill ; 










The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still, 










She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill. 










Gie me the groat again, canny young man; 










Gie me the groat again, canny young man; 










The day it is short, and the night it is lang, 










The dearest siller that ever I wan ! 










There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; 










There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane; 










There's some that are dowie, I tiow wad be fain 










To see the liit tailor come skippin' again. 










THE TITHER MORN. 










The tither morn, 


Deil tak' the war ! 










When 1 forlorn, 


I late and air. 










Aneath an aik sat moaning. 


Hae wish since Jock departed; 










I did na trow, 


But now as glad 










I'd see my Jo, 


I'm wi' my lad. 










Beside me, gain the gloaming. 


As short syne broken-hearted. 










But he sae trig, 


Fu' aft at e'en 










Lap o'er the rig, 
And dawtingly did cheer me, 
When 1, what reck, 
Did least expec'. 


Wi' dancing keen. 
When a' were blythe and merry 
I car'd na by, 
.Sae sad was I 










To see my lad so near me. 


In absence o' my dearie. 










His bonnet he. 


But, praise be blest. 












A thought ajee, [me ; 


My mind's at rest. 














Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd 

And I, I wat, 

Wi' fainness grat. 
While in his grips he press'd me. 


I'm happy wi' my Johnny : 
At kirk and fair, 
I'se ay be there. 

And be as canty 's ony. 










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266 



THE CARLE OE KELLYBURN BRAES. 



THE CARLE 

Tune 



OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

Kellyburn braes." 



There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

And he had a wife was the plague o' his days; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme). 

He met wi' the Devil; says, " How do you fen?" 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

" I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my complaint " 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

" For, saving your presence, to her ye're a saint; " 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

" It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall crave 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

"But gie me your wife, man, for her I must have; " 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

" O welcome, most kindly," the blythe carle said 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

"But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're ca'd; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

The Devil has got the auld wife on his back 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

And, like a poor pedlar, he's carried his pack; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

He's carried her hame to his ain hallan-door 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

Syne bad her gae in, for a b — h and a w — e; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

Then straight he makes fifty the pick o' his band 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme). 

Turn out on her guard in the clap of a hand; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

The carlin gaed thro' them like ony wud bear 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

Whae'er she gat hands on came near her nae niair; 
And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

A reekit.wee Devil looks over the wa' 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 

" O, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a'; 

And the thyme it is \\ ither'tl, and rue is in prime. 



THERE WAS A LASS. 367 ^| 

The Devil he swore by the edge o' his knife 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme). 
He pitied the man that was tied to a vife; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

The Devil he swore by the kirk and the bell 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme). 
He was not in wedlock, thank heav'n, but in hell; 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 

Then Satan has travell'd again wi' his pack 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 
And to her auld husband he's carried her back; 

And the thyme it is wither'd. and rue is in prime. 

" I hae been a Devil the feck o' my life " 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonie wi' thyme), 
" But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife; " 

And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in prime. 



THERE WAS A LASS. 

Tune — " Duncan Davison." 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 

And she held o'er the moors to spin ; 
There was a lad that follow'd her, 

They ca'd him Duncan Davison. 
The moor was driegh, and Meg was skiegh, 

Her favour Duncan could na win; 
For wi' the rock she wad him knock. 

And ay she shook the temper-pin. 

As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
Upon the banks they eased their shanks, 

And ay she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan swore a haly aith, 

That Meg should be a bride the morn; 
Then Meg took up her spinnin' graith. 

And flung them a' out o'er the burn. 

We'll big a house — a wee, wee house, 

And we will live like King and Queen, 
Sae blythe and merry we will be 

When ye set by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk; 

A man may tight and no be slain; 
A man may kiss a bonie lass. 

And ay be welcome back again. 



^' 


















<^M '. 


-. KFa 




V 

- 268 T//£ CARLES 


OF DYSART. If 


THE WEARY FUND O' TOW. 


I will wash my ploughman's hose. 








And I will dress his o'erlay; 








Tune — " The ttjeary />vnd tow:' 


I will mak my ploughman's bed, 






'^ 


The weary pund, the weary pund, 


And cheer him late and early. '^ ^ 








The weary pund 0' tow; 
I think my wife will end her life 

Before she spin her tow. 
I bought my wife a stane 0' lint 

As gude as e'er did grow; 
And a' that she has made 0' that, 

Is ae poor pund 0' tow. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyond the ingle low, 
And ay she took the tither souk 

To drouk the stowrie tow. 

Quoth I, For shame, ye dirty dame, 
(iae spin your tap 0' tow I 

.She took the rock, and wi' a knock 
She brak it o'er my pow. 

At last her feet — I sang to see't — 


Up wi't a', &c. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 
I hae been at .Saint Johnston, 

The boniest sight that e'er I saw 
Was the ploughman laddie dap^^n' 
Up wi't a', cVc. 

Snaw-white stockins on his legs, 
And siller buckles glancin'; 

A gude blue bannet on his head, 
And 0, but he was handsome ! 
Up wi't -J, &c. 

Commend me to the barn-yard, 
And the corn-mou', man ; 

I never gat my coggie fou 
Till I met wi' the ploughman. 
Up wi't a', &c. 








C.aed foremost o'er the knowe; 








And or I wad anither jad. 










I'll wallop in a tow. 










The weary pund, the weary pund, 


'HE CARLES OF DYSART 








The weary pund 0' tow ! 










I think my wife will end her life 


Tune — " Hey, ca' thro\" 








Before she spin her tow. 


Ui- wi' the carles of Dysart, ^ 
And the lads 0' Buckhaven, 
And the kimmers 0' Largo, 








THE PLOUGHMAN. 


Aid the lasses 0' Leven. 

Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 








Tune — " Up wV the Ploughman" 


For we hae mickle ado; 








The ploughman he's a bonie lad, 


Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 








His mind is evzr true, jo, 


For we hae mickle ado. 








His garters knit below his knee. 










His bonnet it is blue, jo. 


We hae tales to tell. 

And we hae sangs to sing; 








CHORUS. 


We hae pennies to spend. 








Then up wi't a', my ploughman lad, 


And we hae pints to bring. 








And hey, my merry ploughman ; 










Of a' the trades that I do ken. 


We'll live a' our days, 








Commend me to the ploughman. 


And them that come behm ,. 
Let them do the like, 






'^ 


p My ploughman he comes hame at e'en, 


And spend the gear they win. 






He's aften wat and weary; 


Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 






Cast off the wat, put on the dry, 


For we hae mickle adp* 








And gae to bed, my Dearie ! 


Hey, ca' thro', ca' thro', 








Up wi't a', &e. 


For we hae mickle ado. 






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•The plonghm.ir. he's a honie lad."— Page 20^. 



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COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 



269 



WEARY FA' YOU, DUNCAN 
GRAY. 

Tune — "Duncan Gray." 

Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
When a' the lave gae to their play, 
Then I maun sit the lee-lang day, 
And jog the cradle \vi' my tae, 

And a' for the girdin o't. 

Bonie was the Lammas moon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Glowrin' a' the hills aboon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
The girdin brak, the beast cam down, 
I tint my curch, and baith myshoon; 
Ah ! Duncan, ye're an unco loon — 

Wae on the bad girdin' o't ! 

But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Ise bless you wi' my hindmost breath — 

Ha, ha, the girdin o't ! 
Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith, 
The beast again can bear us baith, 
And auld Mess John will mend the 
skaith. 

And clout the bad girdin o't. 

MY HOGGIE. 

Tune — " IVkat will I do gin my Hoggie 
die?" 

What will I do gin my Hoggie die ? 

My joy, my pride, my Hoggie ! 
My only beast, I had na mae, 

And vow but I was vogie ! 

The lee-lang night we watch'd the 
fauld, 

Me and my faithfu' doggie; 
We heard nought but the roaring linn, 

Amang the braes sae scroggie; 

But the howlet cry'd frae the castle wa', 

The blitter frae the boggie. 
The tod reply'd upon the hill, 

I trembled foi my Hoggie. 



When day did daw, and cocks did craw. 
The morning it was foggie ; 

An unco tyke lap o'er the dyke, 
And maist has kill'd my Hoggie. 

WHERE HAE YE BEEN. 

Tune — " Killiecrankie." 
Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? 

Where hae ye been sae brankie, O? 
O, whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O. 
An' ye hae been whare I hae been, 

Ye had na been so cantie, O; 
An' ye had seen what I had seen, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 

I fought at land, I fought at sea; 

At hame I fought my auntie, O; 
But I met the Devil an' Dundee, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr. 

An' Clavers got a clankie, O; 
Or I had fed an Athole gled, 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O. 

COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 

Tune — " Cock up your beaver." 
When first my brave Johnnie lad 

Came to this town, 
He had a blue bonnet 

That wanted the crown; 
But now he has gotten 

A hat and a feather, — 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad. 

Cock up your beaver ! 

Cock up your beaver, 

And cock it fu' sprush, 
We'll over the border 

And gie them a brush; 
There's somebody there 

W^e'U teach better behaviour — 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver ! 

THE HERON BALLADS. 

FIRST BALLAD. 

Whom will you send to London town 

To Parliament and a' that? 
Or wha in a' the country round 

The best deserves to fa' that? 



\~ 





270 



THE ELECTION. 



For a' that, an' a' that, 
Thro' Galloway and a' that ! 
Where is the laird or belted 

knight 
That best deserves to fa' that? 

Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett, 

And wha is't never saw that? 
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree meets 
And has a doubt of a' that? 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
The independent patriot. 
The honest man, an' a' that. 

The' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that; 
Wi' dukes an' lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that. 

But why should we to nobles jouk, 

And is't against the law that? 
For why, a lord may be a gouk, 
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi' ribbon, star, an' a' that. 

A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 

Wi' uncle's purse an' a' that; 
B\it we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, 
A man we ken, an' a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
For we're not to be bought an' 

sold 
Fike naigs, an' nowt, an' a' that. 

Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, an' a' that, 
Our representative to be, 

For weel he's worthy a' that. 
For a' that, an' a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A House of Commons such as 

he, 
They would be blest that saw 
that 



THE ELECTION. 

SECOND BALLAD. 

Fy, let US a' lo Kirkcudbright, 

For there will be bickerin' there. 
For Murray's light-horse are to muster, 

And O, how the heroes will swear ! 
An' there will be Murray commander. 

And Gordon the battle to win; 
Like brothers they'll stand by each 
other, 

Sae knit in alliance an' kin. 

And there will l:)e black-lippet Johnnie, 

The tongue o' the trump to them a'; 
And he gat na hell for his haddin' 

The Deil gets na justice ava' ; 
An' there will be Kempleton's birkie, 

A boy no sae black at the bane, 
But, as for his fine nabob fortune. 

We'll e'en let the subject alane. 

An' there will be Wigton's new sheriff. 

Dame Justice fu' brawlie has sped, 
She's gotten the heart of a Bushby, 

But, Lord, what's become o' the head? 
An' there will be Cardoness, Esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes; 
A wight that will weather damnation. 

For the Devil the prey will despise. 

An' there will be Douglasses doughty, 

New christening towns far and near ! 
Abjuring their democrat doings, 

By kissing the — o' a peer; 
An' there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous 

Whose honour is proof to the storm, 
To save them from stark reprobation 

He lent them his name to the firm. 

But we winna mention Redcastle, 

The body e'en let him escape ! 
He'd venture the gallows for siller. 

An' twere na the cost o' the rape. 
An' where is our King's lord lieutenant, 

Sae fam'd for his gratefu' return? 
The billie is gettin' his questions, 

To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 

An' there will be lads o' the gospel, 
Muirhead wha's as good as he's true; 

An' there will be Buittle's apostle, 
Wha's more o' the black than the blue; 









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i 




1- AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 271 ' 


— 1 




An' there will be folk from St. Mary's, 


AN EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 




A house 0' great merit and note. 










The deil ane but honours them highly, — 


THIRD BALLAD. (MAY, I796.) 








- '^ The deil ane will gie them his vote ! 


Wha will buy my troggin, ^ 
Fine election ware; 


^ 






An' there will be wealthy young Richard, 


Broken trade o' Broughton, 








Dame Fortune should hing by the 


A' in high repair. 








neck ; 


Buy bra\\' troggin, 








For prodigal, thriftless bestowing — 


Frae the banks o' Dee; 








His merit had won him respect : 


Wha wants troggin 








An' there will be rich brother nabobs, 


Let him come to. me. 








Though nabobs, yet men of the first; 










An' there will be Collieston's whiskers, 


There's a noble Earl's 








An' Quintin, 0' lads not the worst. 


Fame and high renown, 
For an auld sang — 








An' there will h^ stamp-office Johnnie, 


It's thought the gudes were stown. 








Tak tent how ye purchase a dram; 


Buy braw troggin, &c. 








An' there will be gay Cassencarrie, 
An' there will be gleg Colonel Tam ; 

An' there will be trusty Kerroughtree, 
Whose honour was ever his law, 

If the virtues were pack'd in a parcel, 
His worth might be sample for a'. 


Here's the worth o' Broughton 

In a needle's ee; 
Here's a reputation 

Tint by Balmaghie. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's an honest conscience 








An' can wq forget the auld major. 


Might a prince adorn; 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald — 








Wha'U ne'er be forgot in the Greys; 








Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, 


So was never worn. 








Him only 'tis justice to praise. 


Buy braw troggin, &c. 








An' there will be maiden Kilkerran, 








And also Barskimming's gude knight; 


Here's its stuff and lining, 








An' there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 


Cardoness' head; 








Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 


Fine for a sodger 
A' the wale o' lead. 








An' there, frae the Niddisdale's borders, 


Buy braw troggin, &c. 








Will mingle the Maxwells in droves ; 










Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, an' 


Here's a little wadset 








Walie, 


Buittles scrap o' truth, 








That griens for the fishes an' loaves; 


Pawn'd in a gin-shop 








An' there will be Logan MacDowall, 


Quenching holy drouth. 








ScukluddVy an' he will be there. 


Buy braw troggin, &c. 








An' also the wild Scot 0' Galloway, 










Sodgerin', gunpowder Blair. 


Here's armorial bearings 
Frae the manse o' Urr; 








Then hey the chaste interest 0' Brough- 


The crest, an auld crab-apple 








ton, 


Rotten at the core. 








An' hey for the blessings 'twill bring ! 


Buy braw troggin, &c. 








It may send Balmaghie to the Commons, 








f 


^ In Sodom 'twould make him a King; 


Here is Satan's picture, 








An' hey for the sanctified Murray, 


Like a bizzard gled. 








Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd; 


Pouncing poor Redcastle 








He founder'd his horse among harlots, 


Sprawlin' as a taed. 








But gied the auld naig to the Lord. 


Buy braw troggin, &c. 


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LAMENT A TION. - 


71 


Here's the worth and wisdom 


An' there had na been the yerl himsel', 




Collieston can boast; 


there had been nae play; 








By a thievish midge 


But Garlics was to London gane, 








-^ ^ They had been nearly lost. 


And sae the kye might stray. 


^ 






Buy braw troggin, &c. 


And there was Balmaghie, I ween, 






Here is Murray's fragments 


In front rank he wad shine; 






O' the ten commands; 


But Balmaghie had better been 






Gifted by black Jock 


Drinking Madeira wine. 






To get them aff his hands. 






Buy braw troggin, &c. 


Frae the Glenkens came to our aid, 






Saw ye e'er sic troggin? 
If to buy ye're slack, 
Hornie's turnin' chapman, — 


A chief 0' doughty deed; 






In case that worth should wanted be, 
O' Kenmure we had need. 






He'll buy a' the pack. 








Buy braw troggin, &c. 


And by our banners march'd Muirhead, 

And Buittle was na slack ; 
Whase haly priesthood nane can stain. 






JOHN BUSHBY'S LAMEN- 


For wha can dye the black? 






TATION. 








Tune — " Tke Babes in the Wood:' 


And there sae grave Squire Cardoness, 
Look'd on till a' was done; 






'TwAS in the seventeen hunder year 


Sae, in the tower of Cardonness, 






0' grace and ninety-five. 


A howlet sits at noon. 






That year I was the wae'est man 








0' ony man alive. 


And there led I a Bushby clan, 






Ir March the three-and-twentieth morn. 

The sun raise clear and bright; 
But oh I was a waefu' man 


My gamesome billie Will; 
And my son Maitland, wise as brave, 
My footsteps foUow'd still. 






Ere to-fa' 0' the night. 


The Douglas and the Heron's name 






Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land, 


We set nought to their score ; 






Wi' equal right and fame, 


The Douglas and the Heron's name 






And thereto was his kinsman join'd 


Had felt our weight before. 






The Murray's noble name. 


But Douglasses 0' weight had we. 

The pair 0' lusty lairds. 
For building cot-houses sae famed. 






Yerl Galloway lang did rule the land. 






Made me the judge 0' strife; 






But now Yerl Galloway's sceptre's broke. 


And christening kail-yards. 






And eke my hangman's knife. 






Twas by the banks 0' bonie Cree, 


And there Redcastle drew his sword, 






Beside Kirkcudbright's towers, 
The Stewart and the Murray there 
Did muster a' their powers. 


That ne'er was stained wi' gore, 






Save on a wanderer lame and blind. 






To drive him frae his door. 








The Murray, on the auld gray yaud. 


And last came creeping Collieston, 


r 






\Vi' winged spurs did ride. 


Was mair in fear than wrath ; 








That auld gray yaud, yea, Nidsdale rade, 


Ae knave was constant in his mind, 








He staw upon Nidside. 


To keep that knave frae scaith. 

. ,,4 


:) 






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YE JACOBITES BY XAME. 



YE SONS OF OLD KILLIE. 

Tune — " Shaivuboy." 
Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, 

To follow the noble vocation; 
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another 

To sit in that honour'd station. 
I've little to say, laut only to pray. 

As praying's the Ion o'f your fashion; 
A prayer from the Muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 

Ye powers who preside o'er the wind and the tide, 

Who marked each element's border; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order; 
Within this dear mansion may wayward contention 

Or withered envy ne'er enter; 
May secrecy round be the mystical bound, 

And brotherly love be the centre ! 

YE JACOBITES BY N.\ME. 

Tune — " Ye Jacobites by name.'''' 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear; 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear; 
Ye Jacobites by name. 

Your fautes I will proclaim. 

Your doctrines I maun blame — 
You shall hear. 

What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by the law? 
What is right and what is wrang by the law? 
What is right and what is wrang? 
A short sword and a lang, 
A weak arm, and a Strang 
For to draw. 

What makes heroic strife, fani'd afar, fam'd afar. 
What makes heroic strife fam'd afar? 
What makes heroic strife? 
To whet th' assassin's knife, 
Or hunt a parent's life 
Wi' bluidie war. 

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the scate; 
Then let your schemes alone in the state : 
Then let your schemes alone. 
Adore the rising sun, 

And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 






2 74 



THE COLLIER LADDIE. 



SONG — AH, CHLORIS. 

Tune — " Major Graha7ii.''' 
Ah, Chloris, since it may na be, 

That thou of love wilt hear; 
If from the lover thou maun flee, 

Yet let the friend be clear. 

Altho' I love my Chloris mair 
Than ever tongue could tell; 

My passion I will ne'er declare, 
I'll say, I wish thee well. 

Tho' a' my daily care thou art, 
And a' my nightly dream, 

I'll hide the struggle in my heart. 
And say it is esteem. 

WHAN I SLEEP I DREAM. 

Whan I sleep I dream. 

Whan I wauk I'm eerie. 
Sleep I canna get, 

For thinkin' o' my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the house are sleeping, 
I think on the bonie lad 

That has my heart a keeping. 

Ay waukin O, waukin ay and 

wearie. 
Sleep I canna get, for thinkin' o' 
my dearie. 

Lanely night conies on, 

A' the house are sleeping, 
I think on my bonie lad. 

An' I bleer my een wi' greetin' ! 
Ay waukin, &c. 

KATHARINE JAFFRAY. 

There liv'd a lass in yonder dale. 
And down in yonder glen, O; 

And Katharine Jaffray was her name, 
Weel known to many men, O. 

Out came the Lord of Lauderdale, 
Out frae the south countrie, O, 

All for to court this pretty maid. 
Her bridegroom for to be, O. 



■^~ 



He's tell'd her father and mother ba: 

As I hear sindry say, O; 
But he has na tell'd the lass hersel' 

Till on her wedding day, O. 

Then came the Laird o' Lochinton 
Out frae the English border. 

All for to court this pretty maid. 
All mounted in good order. 

THE COLLIER LADDIE. 

O WHARE live ye my bonie lass, 
And tell me how they ca' ye? 
I My name, she says, is Mistress Jean, 
And I follow my Collier laddie. 

see ye not yon hills and dales 
The sun shines on sae brawly : 

They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, 
If ye'U leave your Collier laddie. 

And ye shall gang in rich attire, 

Weel buskit up fu' gaudy; 
A"nd ane to wait at every hand. 

If ye'U leave your Collier laddie. 

Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on. 
And the earth conceals sae lowly; 

1 would turn my back on you and it a', 

And embrace my Collier laddie. 

I can win my five pennies in a day. 
And spend it at night full brawlie; 

I can niak my bed in the Collier's neuk. 
And lie down wi' my Collier laddie. 

Loove for loove is the bargain for me, 
Tho' the wee cot-house should haud 
me; [bread, 

And the warld before me to win my 
And fare fa' my Collier laddie. 



WHEN I THINK ON THE 
HAPPY DAYS. 

When I think on the happy days 
I spent wi' you, my dearie ; 

And now what lands between us lie. 
How can I be but eerie ! 

How slow ye move, ye heavy hours 
As ye were wae and weary ! 

It was na sae ye glinted by 
When I was wi' mv dearie. 





^ 




Tlion. whirr! she was over, a mile at a fli'i;ht." — Page 275. 




IFA£ IS MY HEART. 




YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' 
THE PLAIN. 

Tune — " The Carlin o' the Clen." 

VOUNG Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
Sac gallant and sae gay a swain; 
I'ho' a' our lasses he did rove, 
And reign'd resistless King of Love : 
But now wi' sighs and starting tears. 
He strays amang the woods and briers; 



Or in the glens and rocky caves 
His sad complaining dowie raves : 

I wha sae late did range and rove, 
And changed with every moon my love, 
I little thought the time was near. 
Repentance I should buy sae dear; 
The slighted maids my torment see, 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree; 
While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair. 
Forbids me e'er to see her mair ! 



^ 



THE HEATHER WAS BLOOMING, 

The heather was blooming, the meadows were mawn. 
Our lads gaed a hunting, ae day at the dawn. 
O'er moors and o'er mosses and monie a glen, 
At length they discover'd a bonie moor-hen. 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men; 

I red you beware at the hunting, young men; 

Tak some on the wing, and some as they spring. 

But cannily steal on a bonie moor-hen. 
Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heather bells, 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells; 
Her plumage out-lustered the pride o' the spring, 
And O ! as she vvanton'd gay on the wing. 

I red, &c. 
Auld Phoebus himsel, as he peep'd o'er the hill, 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill : 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the brae — 
His rays were outshone, and but mark'd where she lay. 

I red, &c. 
They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill. 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight. 
Then, whirr ! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
I red, &c. 



WAE IS MY HEART. 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee; 
Lang, lang, joy's been a stranger to me : 
Forsaken and friendless my burden I bear, 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds in my ear. 
Love, thou hast pleasures; and deep hae I loved; 
Love, thou hast sorrows; and sair hae I proved: 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my breast 
I can feel its throbbings will soon be at rest. 
O if I were where happy I hae been; 
Down by yon stream and yon bonie castle green •. 
For there he is wand'ring and musing on me, 
Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's ee. 




76 



GUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMEk. 



:.t£ 



M 



EPPIE M'NAB. 

O SAW ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
She's down in the yard, she's kissin' the laird, 
She winna come hame to her ain Jock Ralj. 
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
O come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
Whate'er thou has done, be it late, be it soon, 
Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. 

What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
She lets thee to wit, that she has thee forgot. 
And for ever disowns thee, her ain Jock Rab. 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
As light as the air, and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab. 



AN' O ! MY EPPIE. 

An' O ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
By love, and by beauty, 
By law, and by duty, 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair ! 

An' O ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
A' pleasure exile me, 
Dishonor defile me. 
If e'er I beguile thee, 

]\Iy Eppie Adair ! 



• iUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMER. 

Gi'DEEN to you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye do? 
liccup, quo' Kimmer, 
""he better that I'm fou. 

We're a' noddin, nid nid noddin, 
We're a' noddin at our house at 
hame. 




Kate sits i' the neuk, 

Suppin' hen broo; 
Deil tak Kate 

An' she be a noddin too ! 
We're a noddin, &c. 

How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 
And how do ye fare? 

A pint o' the best o't. 
And twa pints mair. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 

How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 
And how do ye thrive; 

How many bairns hae ye? 
Quo' Kimmer, I hae five. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 

Are they a' Johny's? 

Eh ! atweel no : 
Twa o' them were gotten 

When Johny was awa. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 

Cats like milk. 

And dogs like broo; 
Lads like lasses weel. 

And lassies lads too. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 




THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS 0' NITH. 



^n 



O THAT r HAD NE'ER BEEN 
MARRIED. 

I HAT I had ne'er been married, 
1 wad never had nae care; 

Now I've gotten \\\{e and bairns, 

An' they cry crowdie ever mair. 

Ance crowdie, twice crowdie, 

Three times crowdie in a day; 
Gin ye crowdie ony more, 

Ve'll crowdie a' my meal away. 

Waeful want and hunger fley me, 

Glowrin by the hallen en'; 
Sair I fecht them at the door, 

But ay I'm eerie they come ben. 
Ance crowdie, &c. 

THERE'S NEWS, LASSES. 
There's news, lasses, news, 

Gude news I've to tell. 
There's a boat fu' o' lads 
Come to our town to sell. 
The wean wants a cradle. 

An' the cradle wants a cod. 
An' I'll no gang to my bed 
Until I get a nod. 

Father, quo' she, Mither, quo' she, 

Do what ye can, 
I'll no gang to my bed 

Till I get a man. 
The wean, (ic. 

1 hae as good a craft rig 

As made o' yird and stane; 
And waly fu' the ley-crap 
For I maun till'd again. 
The wean, &c. 

SCROGGAM. 

There was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen, 

Scroggam ; 
She brevv'd good ale for gentlemen, 
Sing auld CowJ, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

The gudewife' dochster fell in a fever, 

Scroggam ; 
The priest o' the parish fell in anither. 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 



They laid the twa i' the bed thegither, 

Scroggam; 
That the heat o' the tane might cool 

the tither, 
Sing auld Cowl, lay you down by me, 
Scroggam, my dearie, ruffum. 

FRAE THE FRIENDS AND 
LAND I LOVE. 

Frae the friends and land I love. 

Driven by Fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove, 

Never mair to taste delight; 
Never mair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care : 
When remembrance wrecks the mind, 

1 leasures but unveil despair. 
Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 

Desart ilka blooming shore, 
Till the Fates, nae mair severe, 

Friendship, love, and peace restore; 
Till re\enge, wi' laurell'd head, 

Bring our banish'd hame again; 
And ilka loyal, bonie lad 

Cross the seas and win his ain. 

THE LADDIES BY THE 
BANKS O' NITH. 

ELECTION BALLAD, I789. 

Tune — "Up and luanr them «'." 
The laddies by the banks o' Nith 

Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie, 
But he'll sair them as he sair'd theking — 
Turn tail and rin awa, Jamie. 

Up and waur them a', Jamie, 

Up and waur them a'; 
The Johnstons hae theguidin'o't. 
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa. 
The day he stude his country's friend, 

Or gied her faes a claw, Jamie. 
Or frae puir man a blessin' wan, 

That day the duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 
But wha is he, his country's boast? 
Like him there is na twa, Jamie; 
There's no a callant tents the kye, 

But kens o' Westerha', Jamie. 
To end the wark, here's Whistlebirk, 
Lang may his whistle blavv, Jamie; 
And ^Iaxwell true o' sterling blue. 
And we'll be Johnstons a', Jamie. 



278 



SONG. 



THE BONIE LASS OF 
ALBANY. 

Tune — " Mary's dream" 
My heart is vvae, and unco ^'ae, 

To think upon the raging sea, 
That roars between her gardens green 

And the bonie Lass of Albany. 

This lovely maid's of royal blood 
That ruled Albion's kingdoms three, 

But oh, alas, for her bonie face. 

They hae wrang'd the Lass of Albany. 

In the rolling tide of spreading Clyde 
There sits an isle of high degree. 

And a town of fame whose princely 
name 
Should grace the Lass of iVlbany. 

But there's a youth, a witless youth, 
That fills the place where she should 
be; 

We'll send him o'er to his native shore. 
And bring our ain sweet Albany. 

Alas the day, and wo the day, 
A false usurper wan the gree. 

Who now commands the towers and 
lands — 
The royal right of Albany. 

We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray, 
On bended knees most ferventlie. 

The time may come, with pipe and 
drum 
We'll welcome hame fair Albany. 



SONCx. 

Tune — "Maggy Lauder." 
When first I saw fair Jeanie's face, 

I couldna tell what ailed me. 
My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat. 

My een they almost failed me. 
She's ay sae neat, sae trim, sae tight. 

All grace does round her hover, 
Ae look deprived me o' my heart. 

And I became a lover. 
She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae gay. 

She's aye sae blythe and cheerie; 
She's aye sae bonie, blythe, and gay, 

O gin I were her dearie ! 

Had I Dundas's whole estate. 

Or Hopetoun's wealth to shine in; 
Did wariike laurels crown my brow, 

Or humbler bays entwining — 
rd lay them a' at Jeanie's feet. 

Could I but hope to move her, 
And prouder than a belted knight, 

rd be my Jeanie's lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae 
gay, &c. 

But sair I fear some happier swain 

Has gained sweet Jeanie's favour : 
If so, may every Ijliss be hers. 

Though I maun never have her : 
But gang she east, or gang she west, 

'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over. 
While men have eyes, or ears, or taste, 

She'll always find a lover. 

She's aye, aye sae blythe, sae 
gay, k.'.. 




APPENDIX. 



The following Elegy, Extempore Verses lo Gavin Hatfiilton, and I'ersicles on 
Sign-posts, now for ihe first time published, are extracted, it is supposed, from 
the copy of his Common-place Book which Burns presented to Mrs. Dunlop of 
Dunlop. The copy, after having been in the hands of several persons, and at 
each remove denuded of certain pages, came into the possession of Mr. Stillie, 
bookseller, Princes Street, Edinburgh, some years since, and is now the property 
of Mr. Macmillan. Besides the following poems, it contains two stanzas never 
before published of the Epitaph on Robert Fergusson, versions of Tliere was a Lad 
7oas horn in Kyle, and Gordon Castle, differing in some respects from those com- 
monly printed; all of which have been embodied in the notes to the present 
edition. In the Common-place Book, the Elegy \s thus introduced: — "The fol- 
lowing poem is the work of some hapless unknown son of the Muses, who deserved 
a better fate. There is a great deal of ' The Voice of Cona,' in his solitary 
mournful notes; and had the sentiments been clothed in Shenstone's language, 
they \\ould have been no discredit even to that elegant poet." Burns, it will be 
seen, does not claim the authorship, and, from internal evidence, the Editor is of 
opinion that it was not written by him. Still, the Elegy, so far at least as the 
Editor is aware, exists nowhere else; and if Burns did not actually compose it, he 
at least thought it worthy of being copied with his own hand into a book devoted 
almost exclusively to his own compositions. Even if it were certain that Burns 
was not the author, still, the knowledge that he admired it, and that through his 
agency it alone exists, is considered sufficient excuse for its admission here. The 
Ejctetnpore Verses to Gaviii Hamilton are as certainly Burns's as is Death and Dr. 
Hornbook, or the Address to the Deil. The dialect, the turn of phrase, the glit- 
tering surface of sarcasm, with the strong under-current of sense, and the peculiar 
off-handimpetuosity of idea and illustration, unmistakeably indicate Burns's hand, 
and his only. In the Common-place Book, no date is given; but from the terms 
of the two closing stanzas, it would appear that the voyage to Jamaica was in 
contemplation at the period of its composition. The last stanza is almost identi- 
cal in thought and expression with the closing lines of the well-known Dedication 
to Gavin Hamilton, which was written at that time, and which appeared in the 
first edition of the Poems printed at Kilmarnock. 

The Ver sides on Sign-posts have the following introduction : — "The everlasting 
surliness of a Lion, .Saracen's head, &c., or the unchanging blandness of the Land- 
lord welcoming a traveller, on some sign-posts, would be no bad similies of the 
constant affected fierceness of a Bully, or the eternal simper of a Frenchman or a 
Fiddler." The Versicles themselves are of little worth, and are indebted entirely 
to their paternity for their appearance here. 



H 



# 




-Ju£. 



280 



APPENDIX. 



ELEGY.. 

Strait is the spot and green the sod, 
From whence my sorrows flow: 

And soundly sleeps the ever dear 
Inhabitant below. 

Pardon my transport, gentle shade, 

While o'er the turf I bow ! 
Thy earthly house is circumscrib'd. 

And solitary now. 

Not one poor stone to tell thy name. 
Or make thy virtues known : 

But what avails to me, to thee, 
The sculpture of a stone? 

I'll sit me down upon this turf. 

And wipe away this tear : 
The chill blast passes swiftly by, 

And flits around thy bier. 

Dark is the dwelling of the Dead, 
And sad their house of rest : 

Low lies the head by Death's cold arm 
In awful fold embrac'd. 

I saw the grim Avenger stand 

Incessant by thy side; 
Unseen by thee, his deadly breath 

Thy lingering frame destroy'd. 
Pale grew the roses on thy cheek, 

And wither'd was thy bloom. 
Till the slow poison brought thy youth 

Untimely to the tomb. 

Thus wasted are the ranks of men, 
Youth, Health, and Beauty fall : 

The ruthless ruin spreads around, 
And overwhelms us all. 

Behold where round thy narrow house 
The graves unnumber'd lie ! 

The multitudes that sleep below 
Existed but to die. 

Some, with the tottering steps of Age, 
Trod down the darksome way : 

And some, in youth's lamented prime, 
Like thee, were torn away. 

Yet these, however hard their fate. 
Their native earth receives : 

Amid their weeping friends they died, 
And fill their fathers' graves. 



From thy lov'd friends when first thy 
heart 

Was taught by Heaven to flow : 
Far, far remov'd, the ruthless stroke 

Surpris'd and laid thee low. 

At the last limits of our isle, 
Wash'd by the western wave, 

Touch'd by thy fate, a thoughtful bard 
Sits lonely on thy grave. 

Pensive he eyes, before him spread, 
The deep, outstretch'd and vast; 

His mourning notes are borne away 
Along the rapid blast. 

And while, amid the silent Dead 
Thy hapless fate he mourns. 

His own long sorrows freshly bleed. 
And all his grief returns. 

Like thee, cut off in early youth 
And flower of beauty's pride, 

His friend, his first and only joy, 
His much loved Stella, died. 

Him, too, the stern impulse of Fate 

Resistless bears along; 
And the same rapid tide shall whelm 

The Poet and the Song. 

The tear of pity which he shed. 

He asks not to receive; 
Let but his poor remains be laid 

Obscurely in the grave. 

His grief-worn heart, with truest joy. 
Shall meet the welcome shock : 

His airy harp shall lie unstrung 
And silent on the rock. 

O, my dear maid, my Stella, when 
Shall this sick period close : 

And lead the solitary bard 
To his beloved repose? 



EXTEMPORE. 

TO MR. GAVIN HAMILTON. 

To you. Sir, this summons I've sent, 
Pray whip till the pownie is fraething; 

But if you demand what I want, 
I honestly answer you, naething. 




w 



APPENDIX. 



281 



Ne'er scorn a poor Poet like me. 
For idly just living and breathing, 

While people of every degree 

Are busy employed about — naething. 

Poor Centum-per-centum may fast, 
And grumble his hurdles their claith- 
ing; 

He'll find, when the balance is cast, 
He's gane to the devil for — naething. 

The courtier cringes and bows, 

Ambition has likewise its plaything; 

A coronet beams on his brows : 

And what is a cOronet? — naething. 

Some quarrel the Presbyter gown, 
Some quarrel Episcopal graithing, 

But every good fellow will own 

Their quarrel is all about ■ — naething. 

The lover may sparkle and glow. 

Approaching his bonie bit gay thing : 

But marriage will soon let him know 
He's gotten a buskit up naething. 

Fhe Poet may jingle and rhyme 
In hopes of a laureate wreathing, 

And when he has wasted his time 

He's kindly rewarded with naething. 

The thundering bully may rage, 

And swagger and swear like a 
heathen; 

But collar him fast, I'll engage, 

You'll find that his courage is naething. 

Last night with a feminine whig, 
A Poet she could na put faith in. 

But soon we grew lovingly big, 

I taught her,her terrors were naething. 

Her whigship was wonderful pleased. 
But charmingly tickled wi' ae things 



Her fingers I lovingly squeezed, 

And kissed her and promised her — 
naething. 

The priest anathemas may threat, — 
Predicament, Sir, that we're baith in ; 

But when honour's reveille is beat, 
The holy artillery's naething. 

And now, I must mount on the wave, 
My voyage perhaps there is death in : 

But what of a watery grave ? 

The drowning a Poet is naething. 

And now, as grim death's in my thought. 

To you, Sir, I make this bequeathing : 
My service as long as ye've aught. 

And my friendship, by G — , when 
ye've naething. 



VERSICLES ON SIGN-POSTS. 

He looked 
Just as your Sign-post lions do, 
As fierce, and quite as harmless too. 

PATIENT STUPIDITY. 

So heavy, passive to the tempests' shocks, 
Strong on the Sign-post stands the stupid 
0.x. 



His face with smile eternal drest, 
Just like the Landlord to his guest, 
High as they hang with creaking din, 
To index out the Country Inn. 



A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and 

soul, 
The very image of a Barber's Poll; 
It shows a human face and wears a wig. 
And looks, when well preserved, amazing 

big. 



THE 



LETTERS OF BURNS. 





THE 
LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. I. 

TO MISS ELLISON BEGBIE. 

[Although the exact date of the correspondence with Miss EUison Begbie 
cannot be ascertained, there appears to be good reason for attributing it to some 
time about 1 780-1, and for beheving that they are the earhest letters of the poet 
which have been preserved. Elhson was the daughter of a small farmer, and was 
engaged, at the time of the correspondence, as domestic servant to a family on 
the banks of the Cessnock. She was an amiable, intelligent, but not particularly 
handsome girl, and Burns was evidently serious in his desire to marry her. It was 
on the eve of his removal to Irvine to try his hand at flax-dressing, with a view 
to getting the means of marriage, that he learned the hopelessness of his passion. 
Ellison had already given her heart to another. She was the heroine of the song, 
" On Cessnock Banks."] 

LOCHLEA. 

I VERILY believe, my deai E., that the pure genuine feelings of love 
are as rare in the world as the pure genuine principles of virtue and 
piety. This I hope will account for the uncommon style of all my letters 
to you. By uncommon, I mean their being written in such a serious 
manner, which, to tell you the truth, has made me often afraid lest you 
should take me for some zealous bigot, who conversed with his mistres.s 
as he would converse with his minister. I don't know how it is, my 
dear ; for though, except your company, there is nothing on earth gives 
me so much pleasure as writing to you, yet it never gives me those 
giddy raptures so much talked of among lovers. I have often thought 
that if a well-grounded affection be not really a part of virtue, 'tis some- 
thing extremely akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. warms my 
heart, every feeling of humanity, every principle of generosity kindles in 
my breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of malice and envy which are 
but too apt to infest me. I grasp every creature in the arms of universal 
benevolence, and equally participate in the pleasures of the happy, and 
sympathise with the miseries of the unfortunate. I assure you, my dear, 
I often look up to the Divine Disposer of events with an eye of gratitude 
for the blessing which I hope He intends to bestow on me in bestowing 
you. I sincfcrely wish that He may bless my endeavours to make your 



Tqrr^— 





]^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



life as comfortable and happy as possible, both in sweetening the rougher 
parts of my natural temper, and bettering the unkindly circumstances of 
my fortune. This, my dear, is a passion, at least in my view, worthy of 
a man, and I will add worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth-worm 
may profess love to a woman's person, whilst in reality his affection is 
centered in her pocket ; and the slavish drudge may go a-wooing as he 
goes to the horse-market to choose one who is stout and firm, and as we 
may say of an old horse, one who will be a good drudge and draw kindly. 
I disdain their dirty, puny ideas. I would be heartily out of humour 
with myself, if I thought I were capable of having so poor a: notion of 
the sex, which were designed to crown the pleasures of society. Poor 
devils ! I don't envy them their happiness who have such notions. For 
my part I propose quite other pleasures with my dear partner. — R. B. 



No. II. 

TO THE .SAME. 
My dear E. Lochlea. 

I do not remember, in the course of your acquaintance and 
mine, ever to have heard your opinion on the ordinary way of falling in 
love amongst people of our station in life : I do not mean the persons 
who proceed in the way of bargain, but those whose affection is really 
placed on the person. 

Though I be, as you know very well, but a very awkward lover myself, 
yet as I have some opportunities of observing the conduct of others who 
are much better skilled in the affair of courtship than I am, I often think 
it is owing to lucky chance more than to good management, that there are 
not more unhappy marriages than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the acquaintance of the females, 
and customary for him to keep them company when occasion serves : 
some one of them is more agreeable to him than the rest ; there is some- 
thing, he knows not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her com- 
pany. This I take to be what is called love with the greater par/^ of us ; 
and I must own, my dear E., it is a hard game such a one as you have to 
play when you meet with such a lover. You cannot refuse but he is sin- 
cere, and yet though you use him ever so favourably, perhaps in a few 
months, or at farthest in a year or two, the same unaccountable fancy ma)- 
make him as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are quite forgot. I 
am aware that perhaps the next time I have the pleasure of seeing you, 
you may bid me take my own lesson home, and tell me that the passion I 
have professed for you is perhaps one of those transient flashes I have 
been describing; but I hope, my dear E., you will do me the justice to 
believe me, when I assure you that the love I have for you is founded on 
the sacred principles of virtue and honour, and by consequence so long 
as you continue possessed of those amiable qualities which first inspired 
my passion for you, so long must I continue to love you. Believe me, 
mv dear, it is love like this alone which can render the marriage state 





THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 287 

happy. People may talk of flames and raptures as long as they please, 
and a warm fancy, with a flow of youthful spirits, may make them teel 
something like wliat they describe: but sure I am the nobler faculties of 
the mind, with kindred feelings of the heart, can only be the foundation 
of friendship, and it has always been my opinion that the married life 
was only friendship in a more exalted degree. If you will be so good as 
to grant my wishes and it shall please Providence to spare us to the 
latest period of life, I can look forward and see that even then, though bent 
down with wrinkled age ; even then, when all other worldly circumstances 
will be indifterent to me, 1 will regard my E. with the tenderest affection, 
and for this plain reason, because she is still possessed of these noble 
qualities, improved to a much higher degree, which first inspired my 
affection for her. 

" O happy state! when souls each other draw, 
When love is liberty, and nature law." 

I know were I to speak in such a style to many a girl, who thinks her- 
self possessed of no small share of sense, she would think it ridiculous ; 
but the language of the heart is, my dear E., the only courtship 1 shall 
ever use to you. 

When I look over what I have written, I am sensible that it is vastly 
different from the ordinary style of courtship, but I shall make no 
apology — I know your good nature vviJl excuse what your good sense 
may see amiss. — R. B. 

No. HI. 
TO THE SAMU 

LOCHLE.A. 

I HAVE often thought it a peculiarly unlucky circumstance in love, 
that though in every other situation in life telling the truth is not only the 
safest, but actually by far the easiest way of proceeding, a lover is never 
under greater difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for expression, than 
when his passion is sincere, and his intentions are honourable. I do not 
think that it is very difficult for a person of ordinary capacity to talk of love 
and fondness which are not felt, and to make vows of constancy and 
fidelity which are never intended to be performed, if he be villain enough 
to practise such detestable conduct : but to a man whose heart glows with 
the principles of integrity and truth, and who sincerely loves a woman of 
amiable person, uncommon refinement of sentiment, and purity of manners 
— to such an one, in such circumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from 
my own feelings at this present moment, courtship is a task indeed. 
There is such a number of foreboding fears, and distrustful anxieties 
crowd into my mind when I am in your company, or when I sit down 
to write to you, that what to speak or what to write I am altogether 
at a loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto practised, and which I shall in- 
variably keep with you, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain truth. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



There is something so mean and unmanly in the arts of dissimulation 
and falsehood, that I am surprised they can be acted by any one in so 
noble, so generous a passion, as virtuous love. No, my dear E., I shall 
never endeavour to gain your favour by such detestable practices. If 
you will be so good and so generous as to admit me for your partner, 
your companion, your bosom friend through life, there is nothing on 
this side of eternity shall give me greater transport ; but I shall never 
think of purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of a man, and I will 
add, of a Christian. There is one thing, my dear, which I earnestly 
request of you, and it is this : that you would soon either put an end to my 
hopes by a peremptory refusal, or cure me of my fears by a generous 
consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send me a line or two when con- 
venient. I shall only add further that, if a behaviour regulated (though 
perhaps but very imperfectly) by the rules of honour and virtue, if a heart 
devoted to love and esteem you, and an earnest endeavour to promote 
your happiness ; if these are qualities you would wish in a friend, in a 
husband, I hope you shall ever find them in your real friend and sincere 
lover, — R. B. 



Mo. F.V. 




J'U THE SAME. 

LOCHLEA. 

I OUGHT, in good manners, to have acknowledged the /ectipt of your 
letter before this time, but my heart was so shocked with the contents of 
it, that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as to write you on the 
subject. I will not attempt to describe what I felt on receiving your 
letter. I read it over and over, again and again, and though it was in the 
politest language of refusal, still it was peremptory; "you were sorry 
you could not make me a return, but you wish me," what, without you, 
I never can obtain, "you wish me all kind of happiness." It would be 
weak and unmanly to say that without you I never can be happy ; 
but sure I am, that sharing life with you would have given it a relish, 
that, wanting you, I can never taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and your superior good sense, 
do not so much strike me : these, possibly, may be met with in a few 
instances in others ; but that amiable goodness, that tender feminine 
softness, that endearing sweetness of disposition, with all the charming 
offspring of a warm feeling heart — these I never again expect to meet 
with in such a degree in this world. All these charming qualities, 
heightened by an education much beyond anything I have ever met 
in any woman I ever dared to approach, have made an impression 
on my heart that I do not think the world can ever efface. My imagina- 
tion has. fondly flattered myself with a wish — I dare not say it ever 
reached a hope — that possibly I might one day call you mine. I had 
formed the most delightful images, and my fancy fondly brooded over them : 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



but now I am wretched for the loss of what I really Jiad no right to ex- 
pect. I must now think no more of you as a mistress : still I presume to 
ask to be admitted as a friend. As such I wish to be allowed to wait on 
vou, and as I expect to remove in a few days a little further off, and you, 
i suppose, will soon leave tliis place, I wish to see or hear from you soon : 
and if an expression should perhaps escape me rather too warm for 

friendship, I hope you will pardon it in, my dear Miss (pardon me 

*;he dear expression for once), . . , R. B. 

No. V. 

TO WILLIAM BURNES. 

[His disappointed love, his distaste for the dull, laborious employment of flax- 
heckling, and the umpromising nature of the speculation, combined, with a severe 
nervous malady, to throw Burns into a state of painful mental depression. It was 
a time, as he afterwards said, which he could not recall without a shudder.] 

Honoured Sir, x-rw^^, December ■2^th,^.^^l. 

I have purposely delayed writing, in the hope that I should have 
the pleasure of seeing you on New Year's Day ; but work comes so hard 
upon us, that I do not choose to be absent on that account, as well as for 
some other little reasons which I shall tell you at meeting. My health is 
nearly the same as when you were here, only my sleep is a little sounder, 
and on the whole 1 am rather better than otherwise, though I mend b\' 
very slow degrees. The weakness of my nerves has so debilitated my 
mind that I dare neither review past events, i nor look forward into 
futurity ; for the least anxiety or perturbation in my breast produces most 
anhappy effects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, when for an 
hour or two my spirits are a little lightened, I gliimner a little into 
futurity; but my principal, and indeed my only plea.surable employment, is 
looking backwards and forwards in a moral and religious way. I am quite 
transported at the thought that ere long, perhaps very soon, I shall bid an 
eternal adieu to all the pains, and uneasinesses, and disquietudes of this 
weary life ; for I assure you I am heartily tired of it, and if I do not very 
much deceive myself, I could contentedly and gladly resign it. 

" The soul uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come." 

It is for this reason I am more pleased with the 15th, i6th, and 17th verses 
of the 7th chapter of Revelations, than with any ten times as many verses 
in the whole Bible, and would not exchange the noble enthusiasm with 
which they inspire me for all that this world has to offer. As for this world, 
I despair of ever making a figure in it. I am not formed for the bustle of 
the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. I shall never again be capable of 
entering into such scenes. Indeed, I am altogether unconcerned at the 
thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty and obscurity probably await 
me, and I am in some measure prepared, and daily preparing to meet 
them. I have but just time and paper to return you my grateful thanks 

1 In all Dr. Currie's four editions (1800-1803) the word " wants " is here given, an obvious 
niispTint for " events." 






290 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




for the lessons of virtue and piety you liave given nie. which were too 
mucii neglected at the time of giving them, but which I hope have been 
remembered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful respects to my 
mother, and my compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Muir ; and with wishing 
you a merry New Year's Day, I shall conclude. I am, honoured Sir, 

Your dutiful Son, 

Robert Burness. 
P.S. My meal is nearly out, but I am going to borrow till I get more. 

No. VI. 
TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH, 

SCHOOI.M.'VSTER, STAPLES INN BUILDINGS, LONDON. 

[John Murdoch, before liis removal to London, kept the school of Lochlea, 
where the sons of William l>urnes were for a time his pupils.] 

Dear Sir, Lochlea, 15M January, 1783. 

As I have an opportunity of sending you a letter without putting 
you to that expense which any production of mine would but ill repay, 
I embrace it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not forgotten, nor 
ever will forget, the many obligations I lie under to your kindness and 
friendship. 

I do not doubt. Sir, but you will wish to know what has been the 
result of all the pains of an indulgent father, and a masterly teacher; and 
I wish I could gratify your curiosity with such a recital as you will be 
pleased with : but that is what I am afraid will not be the case. I have, 
indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits ; and, in this respect, I hope, 
my conduct will not disgrace the education I have gotten ; but, as a man 
of the world, I am most miserably deficient. One would have thought 
that, bred as I have been, under a father who has figured pretty well as 
iin Jionune des affaires, I might have been what the world calls a pushing, 
active fellow; but to tell you the truth. Sir, there is hardly anything 
more my reverse. I seem to be one sent into the world, to see and 
observe ; and I very easily compound with the knave who tricks me of 
my money, if there be anything original about him, which shows me 
human nature in a different light from anything I have seen before. In 
siiort, the joy of my heart is to " study men. their manners, and their 
ways ; " and for this darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other con- 
sideration. I am quite indolent about those great concerns that set the 
bustling, busy sons of care agog ; and if I have to answer for the present 
hour, I am very easy with regard to anything further. Even the last shift 
of the unfortunate and the wretched does not much terrify me: I know 
that even then my talent for what country folks call " a sensible crack," 
when once it. is sanctified by a hoary head, would procure me so much 
esteem, that even then — I would learn to be happy. ^ However, 1 an. 

' He evidently means as a wandering beggar. 




THE LET TERS OF B URNS. z 9 1 

under no apprehensions about that; for though indolent, yet so far as an 
extremely delicate constitution permits, I am not lazy ; and in many 
things, especially in tavern matters, I am a strict economist : not, indeed, 
for the sake of the money ; but one of the principal parts in my com- 
position is a kind of pride of stomach ; and I scorn to fear the face of 
anv man living: above everything, I abhor as hell, the idea of sneaking 
in a corner to avoid a dun — possibly some pitiful, sordid wretch, who in 
my heart I despise and detest. 'Tis this, and this alone, that endears 
economy to me. In the matter of books, indeed, I am very profuse. My 
favourite authors are of the sentimental kind, such as Shenstone, partic- 
ularly his "Elegies;" Thomson; "Man of Feeling"' — a book I prize 
next to the Bible ; " Man of the World; " Sterne, especially his " Senti- 
mental Journey;" Macpherson's " Ossian," &c. : these are the glorious 
models after which I endeavour to form my conduct, and 'tis incongruous, 
'tis absurd to suppose that the man whose mind glows with sentiments 
lighted up at the sacred flame — the man whose heart distends with benev- 
olence to all the human race — he " who can soar above this little scene 
of things "' — can he descend to mind the paltry concerns about which the 
terrasfilial race fret, and fume, and vex tliemselves ! Oh how the glorious 
triumph swells my heart ! I forget that I am a poor, insignificant devil, 
unnoticed and unknown, stalking up and down fairs and markets, when 1 
happen to be in them, reading a page or two of mankind, and "catching 
the manners living as they rise," whilst the men of business jostle me on 
every side, as an idle incumbrance in their way .... 

Dear Sir, yours, 

R. B. 

No. VII. 

COMMON-PLACE BOOK. 

[The following "Observations" were written between 1783 and 1785, and were 
sent by Burns to Mr. Robert Riddel, with the following note: "My dear Sir, — 
On rummaging over some old papers I lighted on a MS. of my early years, in 
which I had determined to write myself out; as I was placed by fortune among a 
class of men to whom my ideas would have been nonsense. I had meant that the 
book should have lain by me, in the fond hope that some time or other, even after 
I was no more, my thoughts would fall into the hands of somebody capable of 
appreciating their value."] 

Observation-s, Hints, Songs, Scraps of Poetry, 6cc., by Robert 
BuRNESS ; a man who had little art in making money, and still less 
in keeping it : but was, however, a man of some sense, a great deal ot 
honesty, and unbounded good-will to every creature, rational and irrational. 
— As he was but little indebted to scholastic education, and bred at a 
plough-tail, his performances must be strongly tinctured with his un- 
polished, rustic way of life; but as I believe they are really his own, it 
may be some entertainment to a curious observer of human nature to see 
how a ploughman thinks and feels under the pressure of love, ambition 






rnii LETTERS OF BURNS. 



anxiety, grief, with the like cares and passions, which, however diversified 
by the modes and manners of life, operate pretty much alil<e, I beheve, on 
all the species. 

"There arc numbers in the world who do not want sense to make a figure, so much as an 
opinion of their own abilities to put them upon recording their observations, and allowing them the 
same importance which they do to those that appear in print." — Shenstone. 

" Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 

The forms our pencil or our pen designed! 
Such was our youthful air, and shape, and face, 

Such the soft image of our youthful mind." — Ibid. 

April, 1783. 

Notwithstanding all that has been said against love, respecting the 
folly and weakness it leads a young inexperienced mind into ; still I think 
it in a great measure deserves the highest encomiums that have been 
passed upon it. If anything on earth deserves the name of rapture oi- 
transport, it is the feelings of green eighteen in the company of the 
mistress of his heart, when she repays him with an equal return of 
affection. 

Augjist. 

There is certainly some connexion between love and music and poetry ; 
and, therefore, I have always thought it a fine touch of nature, that pas- 
sage in a modern love-composition : — 

" As towards her cot he jogged along, 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

For my own part I never had the least thought or inclination of turn- 
ing poet till I got once heartily in love, and then rhyme and song were 
in a manner the spontaneous language of my heart. The following com- 
]}osition was the first of my performances, and done at an early period 
of my life, when my heart glowed with honest warm simplicity ; un- 
accjuainted and uncorrupted with the ways of a wicked world. The per- 
formance is, indeed, very puerile and silly; but I am always pleased with 
it. as it recalls to my mind those happy days when my heart was yet 
honest, and my tongue was sincere. The subject of it was a young girl ^ 
who really deserved all the praises I have bestowed on her. I not only 
had this opinion of her then — but I actually think so still, now that the 
spell is long since broken, and the charm at an end : — 

oncL- I lov'd a bonnic lass. {Page 232.) 

Lest my works should be thought below criticism ; or meet with a 
critic who, perhaps, will not look on them with so candid and favourable 
an eye; I am determined to criticise them myself. 

The first distich of the first stanza is quite too much in the flimsy 
strain of our ordinary street ballads; and, on the other hand, the second 
distich is too much in the other extreme. The expression is a little 
awkward, and the sentiment too serious. Stanza the second I am well 
pleased with ; and I think it conveys a fine idea of that amiable part of the 

' " Handsome Nell," — Nelly Kirkpalrick, his fust sweetheart. 



17^- 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



sex — the agreeables ; or what in our Scotch dialect we call a sweet sonsy 
lass. The third stanza has a little of the flimsy turn in it; and the third 
line has rather too serious a cast. Tine fourth stanza is a very indifferent 
one ; the first line is. indeed, all in the strain of the second stanza, but 
the rest is mostly expletive. The thoughts in the fifth stanza come finely 
up to my favourite idea — a sweet sonsy lass : the last line, however, halts a 
little. The .same sentiments are kept up with equal spirit and tenderness 
in the sixth stanza: but the second and fourth lines ending with short 
s\ llables hurt the whole. The seventh stanza has several minute faults : 
but I remember I composed it in a wild enthusiasm of passion, and to 
this hour I never recollect it but my heart melts, my blood sallies at the 
remembrance. 

September. 

I entirely agree with that judicious philosopher, Mr. Smith, in his 
excellent Theory of Moral Sentiments, that remorse is the most painful 
sentiment that can embitter the human bosom. Any ordinary pitch of 
fortitude may bear up tolerably well under those calamities in the pro- 
curement of which we ourselves have had no hand ; but when our own 
follies or crimes have made us miserable and wretched, to bear up witli 
manly firmness, and at the same time have a proper penitential sense of 
our misconduct, is a glorious effort of seif-command. 

Of all the numerous ills th.it hurt our peace, 

That press the soul, or wring the mind with anguish, 

Beyond comparison the worst are those 

That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 

In every other circumstance the mind 

Has this to say — " It was no deed of mine; " 

But when to all the evil of misfortune 

This sting is added — " Blame thy foolish self: " 

Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 

The torturing, gnawing, consciousness of guilt — 

Of suilt, perfiaps, where we've involved others; 

The young, the innocent, who fondly lov'd us, 

Nay, more, that very love their cause of ruin! 

O burning hell! in all thy store of torments 

There's not a keener lash ! 

Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 

Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime. 

Can reason down its agonizing throbs; 

And, after proper purpose of amendment. 

Can firmly force his jarring thoughts tn peace? 

O happy ! happy ! enviable man ! 

O glorious magnanimity of soul I 

March, 1784. 

I have often observed, in the course of my experience of human life. 
that every man, even the worst, has something good about him: though, 
very often nothing else than a happy temperament of constitution inclining 
him to this or that virtue. For this reason, no man can say in what 
degree any other person, besides himself, can be, with strict justice, called 
wicked. Let any of the strictest character for regularity of conduct 
among us, examine impartially how many vices he has never been guilty 
of, not from any care or vigilance, but for want of opportunity, or some 





w 



294 r//£ LETTERS OF BURNS. 



accidental circumstance intervening; how many of the weaknesses of 
mankind he has escaped, because he was out of the line of such tempta- 
tion ; and, what often, if not alwiys, weighs more than all the rest, how 
much he is indebted to the world's good opinion, because the world does 
not know all : I say, any man who can thus think, will scan the failings, 
nav, the faults and crimes, of mankind around him, with a brother's eye. 

i have often courted the acquaintance of that part of mankind com- 
monlv known by the ordinary phrase of blackguards, sometimes farther 
than was consistent with the safety of my character; those who, by 
thoughtless prodigality or headstrong passions, have been driven to ruin. 
Though disgraced by follies, nay, sometimes stained with guilt, I have yet 
found" among them, in not a few instances, some of the noblest virtues, 
magnanimity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and even modesty. 

April. 

As I am what the men of the world, if they knew such a man, would 
call a whimsical mortal, 1 have various sources of pleasure and enjoy- 
ment, which are in a manner peculiar to myself, or some here and there 
such other out-of-the-way person. Such is the peculiar pleasure I take in 
the season of winter, more than the rest of the year. This, I believe, may 
be partly owing to my misfortunes giving my mind a melancholy cast : 
but there is something even in the 

" Mighty tempest, and the hoary waste, 

Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried earth," — 

which raises the mind to a serious sublimity, favourable to everything 
great and noble. There is scarcely any earthly object gives me more — I 
do not know if I should call it pleasure — but something which exalts me, 
something which enraptures me — than to walk in the sheltered side of a 
wood, or high plantation, in a cloudy winter day, and hear the stormy 
wind howling among the trees, and raving over the plain. It is my best 
season for devotion : my mind is wrapt up in a kind of enthusiasm to 
Him, who, in the pompous language of the Hebrew bard, "walks on the 
wings of the wind." In one of these seasons, just after a train of mis- 
fortunes. 1 composed the following: — 

The wintrj- west extends his blast. {Page 61.) 

Shenstone iinely observes, that love verses, writ without any real 
passion, are the most nauseous of all conceits ; and I have often thought 
that no man can be a proper critic of love-composition, except he himself, 
in one or more instances, have been a warm votary of this passion. As I 
have been all along a miserable dupe to love, and have been led into a 
thousand weaknesses and follies by it, for that reason I put the more 
confidence in my critical skill, in distinguishing foppery and conceit from 
real passion and nature. Whether the following song will stand the test. 
I will not pretend to say. because it is my own ; only I can say it was, at 
the time, genuine from the heart : — 

Beliind yon hills, &c. {Page 223.') 



jrc 



^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



^95 



March, 17S4. 

There was a certain period of my life that my spirit was broke by 
repeated losses and disasters, which threatened, and indeed effected, the 
utter ruin of my fortune. My body, too, was attacked by that most 
dreadful distemper, a hypochondria, or confirmed melancholy. In this 
wretched state, the recollection of which makes me yet shudder, I hung 
my harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid intervals, in one of 
which I composed the following: — 

O thou Great Being! wh-it thou art. {Page 68.) 

April. 

The following song is a wild rhapsody, miserably deficient in versi- 
fication ; but as the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my heart, for 
that reason I have a particular pleasure in conning it over: — 

JNIy father was a farmer upon the Carrick border. 

{Page 238.) 

April. 

_ I think the whole species of young men may be naturally enough 
divided into two grand classes, which I shall call \\\ft grai'c and the merry; 
though, by the by, these terms do not with propriety enough express my 
ideas. The grave I shall cast into the usual division of those who are 
goaded on by the love of money, and those whose darling wish is to make 
a figure in the world. The merry are the men of pleasure of all denomi- 
nations ; the jovial lads, who have too much fire and spirit to have any 
settled rule of action ; but, without much deliberation, follow the strong 
impulses of nature: the thoughtless, the careless, the indolent — in par- 
ticular he who, with a happy sweetne.ss of natural temper, and a cheerful 
vacancy of thought, steals through life — generally, indeed, in poverty and 
obscurity; but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him who can sit 
gravely down and make a repining comparison between his own situa- 
tion and that of others ; and lastly, to grace the quorum, such are, gene- 
rally, those whose heads are capable of all the towerings of genius, and 
whose hearts are warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 

A itgiist. 

The foregoing was to have been an elaborate dissertation on the 
various species of men ; but as I cannot please myself in the arrangement 
of my ideas, I must wait till farther experience and nicer observation 
throw more light on the subject. — In the meantime I shall set down the 
following fragment, which, as it is the genuine language of my heart, will 
enable anybody to determine which of the classes I belong to : — 

There's nought but care on ev'ry han', 

In ev'ry hour that passes, O. {Page 223.) 

As the grand end of human life is to cultivate an intercourse with that 
Being to whom we owe life, with every enjoyment that renders life 
delightful; and to maintain an integritive conduct towards our fellow- 
creatures ; that so, by forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be fit 



^^ 



^=\- 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




members for that society of the pious and the ,<j;ood which reason and 
revelation teach us to expect beyond the grave, I do not see that the turn 
of mind and pursuits of such an one as the above verses describe — one who 
spends the hours and thoughts which the vocations of the day can spare 
with Ossian, Shakspeare, Thomson, Shenstone, Sterne, &c. ; or, as the 
maggot takes him. a gun, a fiddle, or a song to make or mend; and at 
all times some heart"s-dear bonnie lass in view — I say I do not see that 
the turn of mind antl pursuits of such an one are in the least more inimical 
to the sacred interests of piety and virtue, than the even lawful bustling 
and straining after the world's riches and honours : and I do not see but 
he may gain heaven as well — which, by the by, is no mean consideration 
— who steals through the vale of life, amusing himself with every little 
flower that fortune throws in his way, as he who, straining straight for- 
ward, and perhaps bespattering all about him, gains some of life's little 
eminences, where, after all, he can only see and be seen a little more con- 
spicuously than what, in the pride of his heart, he is apt to term the poor, 
indolent devil he has left behind him. 

A ngiisf. 

A Prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming symptoms of a pleurisy 
or some other dangerous disorder, which indeed still threatens me, first 
put nature on the alarm : — 

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 
Of all my hope and fear! {Page 66.) 

A UgHSt. 

Misgivings in the hour of despondency and prospect ot death : -^ 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? {Page 67.) 

EGOTISMS FROM MY OWN SENSATIONS. 

May [1784?]. 

I don't well know what is the reason of it, but somehow or other, though 
I am, when I have a mind, pretty generally beloved, yet I never could get 
the art of commanding respect : I imagine it is owing to my being 
deficient in what Sterne calls "that understrapping virtue of discretion." 
I am so apt to a lapsus lingua, that I sometimes think the character of 
a certain great man I have read of somewhere is very much a-propos to 
myself — that he was a compound of great talents and great folly. — N.l). 
To try if I can discover the causes of this wretched infirmity, and, if 
possible, to mend it. 

[Here follow the song Tho' cruel Fate should hid us part, page 21 1; the 
fragment One night as I did zuander, page 242 ; There was a lad 7aas horn in 
Kyle, page 236; Elegy on the death of Rohert Ruisseaux, page 124.] 

A UgHSt. 

However, I am pleased with the works of our Scotch poets, particularly 
the excellent Ramsay, and the still more excellent Fergusson, yet I am 
hurt to see other places of Scotland, their towns, rivers, woods, haughs, 
k.<z., immortalized in such celebrated performances, while my dear native 
country, the ancient bailieries of Carrick, Kyle, and Cunningham, famous 



i^nx 





:t£ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



=97 



both in ancient and modern times for a gallant and warlike race of inhab- 
itants: a country where civil, and particularly religious liberty have ever 
found their first support, and their last asylum ; a country, the birth-place 
of many famous philosophers, soldiers, and statesmen, and the scene of 
many important events recorded in Scottish history, particularly a great 
many of the actions of the glorious Wallace, the saviour of his country; 
\et, we never have had one Scotch poet of any eminence, to make the 
fertile banks of Irvine, the romantic woodlands and sequestered scenes 
on Ayr, and the heathy mountainous source and winding sweep of Doon, 
emulate Tay, Forth, Ettrick, Tweed, &c. This is a complaint I would 
gladly remedy, but, alas ! I am far unequal to the task, both in native 
genius and education. Obscure I am, and obscure I must be, though 
no voung poet, nor young soldier's heart, ever beat more fondly for fame 
than mine : — 

" And if there is no other scene of being 
Where my insatiate wish may have its fill, 
This something at my heart that heaves for room, 
My best, my dearest part, was made in vain." 



fex 



A Frasment- 



When first I came to Stewart Kyle. ^Pcige 239.) 



Septfmber. 

There is a great irregularity in the old Scotch songs, a redundancy of 
syllables with respect to that exactness of accent and measure that the 
English poetry requires, but which glides in, most melodiously, with the 
respective tunes to which they are set. For instance, the fine old song of 
" The Mill, Mill, O." to give it a plain, prosaic reading, it halts prodi- 
giously out of measure ; on the other hand, the song set to the same tune 
in Bremner's collection of Scotch songs, which begins, " To Fanny fair 
could I impart," &c. it is most exact measure : and yet, let them both be 
sung before a real critic, one above the biases of prejudices, but a thorough 
judge of nature, — how fiat and spiritless will the last appear, how Irite, 
and lamely methodical, compared with the wild-warbling cadence, the 
heart-moving melody of the first! This is particularly the case with all 
^hose airs which end with a hypermetrical syllable. There is a degree ol 
wild irregularity in many of the compositions and fragments which are 
daily sung to them by my compeers, the common people — a certain happy 
arrangement of old Scotch syllables, and yet, very frequently, nothing, 
not even like rhyme, or sameness of jingle, at the end of the lines. This 
has made me sometimes imagine that perhaps it might be possible for a 
Scotch poet, with a nice judicious ear, to set compositions to many of our 
most favourite airs, particularly that class of them mentioned above, 
independent of rhyme altogether. 

There is a noble sublimity, a heart-melting tenderness, in .some of our 
ancient ballads, which show them to be the work of a masterly hand : and 
it has often given me many a heart-ache to reflect that such glorious old 





THE /.ETTERS OF BURNS. 



bards — bards who very probably owed all their talents to native genius, 
yet have described the exploits of heroes, the pangs of disappointment, 
and the meltings of love, with such fine strokes of nature — that their very 
names (oh how mortifying to a bard's vanity !) are now "buried among 
the wreck of things which were." 

O ye illustrious names unknown ! who could feel so strongly and 
describe so well: the last, the meanest of the Muses' train — one who, 
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your path, and with trembling 
wing would sometimes soar after you — a poor rustic bard unknown, pays 
this sympathetic pang to your memory ! Some of you tell us, with all the 
charms of verse, that you have been unfortunate in the world — unfortunate 
in love : he, too, has felt the loss of his little fortune, the loss of friends, 
and, worse than all, the loss of the woman he adored. Like you, all his 
consolation was his Muse : she taught him in nistic measures to com- 
plain. Happy could he have done it with your strength of imagination 
and flow of verse ! May the turf lie lightly on your bones ! and may you 
now enjoy that solace and rest which this world rarely gives to the heart 
tuned to all the feelings of poesy and love ! 

September. 
[Here follows the song on Monigomerie' s Peggy, page 240.] 

There is a fragment in imitation of an old Scotch song, well known 
among the country ingle sides. I cannot tell the name, neither of the 
song nor the tune, but they are in fine unison with one another. By the 
way, these old Scottish airs are so nobly sentimental, that when one wou^d 
compose to them, to "south the tune," as our Scotch phrase is, over and 
over, is the readiest way to catch the inspiration, and raise the bard into 
that glorious enthusiasm so strongly characteristic of our old Scotch 
poetry. I shall here set down one verse of the piece mentioned above, 
both to mark the song and tune I mean, and likewise as a debt I owe to 
the author, as the repeating of that verse has lighted up my flame a 
thousand times : — 

When clouds in skies do come together — 

To hide the brightness of the weather, 
There will surelybe some pleasant weather 

When a' their storms are past and gone.i 



Though fickle Fortune has deceived me, 
She promised fair and perform'd but ill; 

Of mistress, friends, and wealth bereav'd me,- 
Yet I bear a heart shall support me still. 

I'll act witn prudence as far as I'm able ; 

But if success I must never find. 
Then come misfortune, I bid thee welcome, 

I'll meet thee with an undaunted mind. 



The above was an extempore, under the pressure of a heavy train of 
misfortunes, which, indeed, threatened to undo me altogether. It was 
just at the close of that dreadful period mentioned already ; and though 

' Alluding to the misfortunes he feelmgly laments before this verse. [This is the author's note.' 



# 



m^ THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 299 

ihe weather has brightened up a little with me, yet there has always been 
since a tempest brewing round me in the grim sky of futurity, which I 
pretty plainly see will some time or other, perhaps ere long, overwhelm 
me, and drive me into some doleful dell, to pine in solitary, squalid 
wretchedness. — However, as I hope my poor country Muse, who, all rustic, 
awkward, and unpolished as she is, has more charms for me than any 
other of the pleasures of life beside — ^as 1 hope she will not then desert 
me, I may even then learn to be, if not happy, at least easy, and soutli a 
sang to soothe my misery. 

'Twas at the same time I set about composing an air in the old Scotch 
style. I am not musical scholar enough to prick down my tune properly, 
so it can never see the light, and perhaps 'tis no great matter; but the 
following were the verses 1 composed to suit it : — 

O raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low, O! {Page ia,o.) 

The tune consisted of three parts, so that the above verses just went 
through the whole air. 

October 1785. 

If ever any young man, in the vestibule of the world, chance to throw 
his eye over these pages, let him pay a warm attention to the following 
observations, as I assure him they are the fruit of a poor devil's dear- 
bought experience. I have literally, like that great poet and great gallant, 
and by consequence that great fool, Solomon, "turned my eyes to behoW 
madness and folly.'" Nay, I have, with all the ardour of a lively, fanciful, 
and whimsical imagination, accompanied with a warm, feeling, poetic 
heart, shaken hands with their intoxicating friendship. 

In the first place, let my pupil, as he tenders his own peace, keep up a 
regular, warm intercourse with the Deity. 

No. VIII. 
TO MR. JAMES BLJRNES, 

WRITER, MONTROSE. 

[James Barnes was Robert's cousin, the son of his father's elder brother, and 
grandfather of Sir Alex. Burnes, of Afghan fame.] 

Dear Sir, Lochlea, iist June, 1783. 

My father received your favour of the loth current; and as he 
has been for some months very poorly in "iealth, and is in his own 
opinion (and, indeed, in almost everybody's else) in a dying condition, he 
has only, with great difficulty, written a few farewell lines to each of his 
brothers-in-law. For this melancholy reason, I now hold the pen for him 
to thank you for yoisr kind letter, and to assure you, Sir, that it shall not 
be my fault if my father's correspondence in the north die with him. My 
brother writes to John Caird, and to him I must refer you for the news 
of our familv. 




±± 



THE LETTERS OF BORA'S. 



I shall only trouble )-ou with a few particulars relative to the wretched 
state of this country. Our markets are exceedingly high ; oatmeal ly i/. 
and iSf-i^. per peck, and not to be got even at that price. We have indeed 
been pretty well supplied with quantities of white peas from England and 
elsewhere, but that resource is likely to fail us, and what will become of 
us then, particularly the very poorest sort. Heaven only knows. This 
country, till of late, was flourishing incredibly in the manufacture ot silk, 
lawn, and carpet weaving; and we are still carrying on a good deal in 
that way, but much reduced from what it was. We had also a fine trade 
in the shoe way, but now entirely ruined, and hundreds driven to a 
starving condition on account of it. Farming is also at a very low ebb 
with us. Our lands, generally speaking, are mountainous and barren ; and 
our landholders, full of ideas of farming gathered from the English and 
the Lothians, and other rich soils in Scotland, make no allowance for the 
odds of the Cjuality of land, and consequently stretch us much beyond 
what in the event we will be found able to pay. We are also much at a loss 
for want of proper methods in our improvements of farming. Necessity 
compels us to leave our old schemes, and few of us have opportunities 
of being well informed in new ones. In short, my dear Sn-. since the 
unfortunate beginning of this American war, and its as unfortunate con- 
clusion, this country has been, and still is, decaying very fast. Even in 
higher life, a couple of our Ayrshire noblemen, and the major part of oui 
knights and squires, are all insolvent. A miserable job of a Douglas 
Heron, & Co.'s bank, which no doubt you heard of, has undone num- 
bers of them ; and imitating English and French, and other foreign 
luxuries and fopperies, has ruined as many more. There is a great trade 
of smuggling carried on along our coasts, which, however destructive to 
the interests of the kingdom at large, certainly enriches this corner of it, 
out too often at the expense of our morals. However, it enables indi- 
viduals to make, at least for a time, a splendid appearance ; but Fortune, 
as is usual with her when she is uncommonly lavish of her favours, is 
generally even with them at last : and happy were it for numbers of 
them if she would leave them no worse than when she found them. 

My mother sends you a small present of a cheese ; 'tis but a very little 
one, as our last year's stock is sold off; but if you could fix on any corre- 
spondent in Edinburgh or Glasgow, we would send you a proper one in 
the season. Mrs. Black promises to take the cheese under her care so 
far, and then to send it to you by the Stirling carrier. 

1 shall conclude this long letter with assuring you that I shall be ver) 
happy to hear from you, or any of our friends in your country, when 
opportunity serves. 

My father sends you, probably for the last time in this world, his 
warmest wishes for your welfare and happiness ; and my mother and the 
rest of the family desire to enclose their kind compliments to you, Mrs, 
Burness, and the rest of your family, along with those of, 

Dear Sir, 
Your af:ectionate Cousin, 
R. B 



THE LET TERS OF BL 'RNS. 30 - 



TO THE SAME. 

[William Burnes died on the 13th February, 1784. On his deathbed -he owned 
there was one of his family for whose future he feared, and Robert being then 
alone in the room with his'father and sister (Mrs. Begg) asked, " Oh, father, is it 
me you mean ? " The old man said it was ; and Robert, turning to the window, 
burst into tears. WiUiam Burnes lies buried in Allovvay Kirkyard. On the small 
headstone over his grave are some lines by his son, lamenting his loss, and com- 
memorating his virtues.] 

Dear Cousin, Lochle.-\, ^^th February, 1784. 

I would have returned you my thanks for your kind favour of 
the 13th Dec. sooner, had it not been that I waited to give you an account 
of that melancholy event which, for some time past, we have from day to 
day expected. 

On the 13th current I lost the best of fathers. Though, to be sure, we 
had long warning of the impending stroke, still the feelings of nature 
claim their part, and I cannot recollect the tender endearments and 
parental lessons of the best of friends and ablest of instructors, without 
feeling what perhaps the calmer dictates of reason would partly condemn. 

I hope my father's friends in your country will not let their connexion 
in this place die with him. For my part I shall ever with pleasure, with 
pride, acknowledge my connexion with those who were allied by the ties 
of blood and friendship to a man whose memory 1 shall ever honour and 
revere. . . . 

No. X. 

TO THE SAME. 

[This letter, it will be observed, is dated from Mossgiel, whither, on Mr. Burnes' 
death, the family removed from Lochlea. The old man's affairs were in a very 
embarrassed condition, and his two sons and two grown daughters had to rank as 
creditors of their father for arrears of wages in order to save part of the Lochlea 
stocking for their new venture. " Mossgiel," says Gilbert Burns, "was stocked by 
the property and individual savings of the whole family, and was a joint concern 
among us. Every member of the family was allowed ordinary wages for the 
labour he performed on the farm. My brother's allowance and mine were £'] per 
annum each. And during the whole time this familv concern lasted, which was 
four years, as well as during the preceding period at Lochlea, his expenses never 
in any one year exceeded his slender income."] 

Mossgiel, August, 1784. 
We have been surprised with one of the most extraordinary phe- 
nomena in the moral world which, I dare say, has happened in the course 
of this half century. We have had a party of Presbytery Relief, as they call 
themselves, for some time in this country. A pretty thriving society of 
them has been in the burgh of Irvine for some years past, till about two 



s 




302 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



years ago, a Mrs. Buchan,' from Glasgow, came among them and began to 
spread some fanatical notions of religion among them, and, in a short 
time, made many converts ; and among others their preacher, Mr. White, 
who upon that account has been suspended and formally deposed by his 
brethren. He continued, however, to preach in private to his party, and 
was supported, both he and their spiritual mother, as they affect to call 
old Buchan, by the contributions of the rest, several of whom were in 
good circumstances; till, in spring last, the populace rose and mobbed 
Mrs. Buchan and put her out of the town ; on which, all her followers 
voluntarily quitted the place likewise, and with such precipitat'on, that 
many of them never shut their doors behind them : one left a washing on 
the green, another a cow bellowing at the crib without food, or anybody 
to mind her ; and after several stages, they are fixed at present in the 
neighbourhood of Dumfries. Their tenets are a strange jumble of en- 
thusiastic jargon ; among others, she pretends to give them the Holy 
Ghost by breathing on them, which she does with postures and practices 
that are scandalously indecent ; they have likewise disposed of all their 
effects, and hold a community of goods, and live nearly an idle life, carry- 
ing on a great farce of pretended devotion in barns and woods, where 
they lodge and lie all together, and hold likewise a community of women, 
as it is another of their tenets that they can commit no moral sin. I am 
personally acquainted with most of them, and I can assure you the 
above mentioned are facts. 

This, my dear Sir, is one of the many instances of the folly of leaving 
the guidance of sound reason and common-sense in matters of religion. 

Whenever we neglect or despise these sacred monitors, the whimsical 
notions of a perturbated brain are taken for the immediate influences of 
the Deity, and the wildest fanaticism, and the most inconstant absurdities, 
will meet with abettors and converts. Nay. I have often thought, that the 
more out-of-the-way and ridiculous the fancies are, if once they are sancti- 
fied under the sacred name of religion, the unha:jpy mistaken votaries 
are the more firmly glued to them. — R. B. 

' Allan Cunningham gives the following interesting note on Mrs. Buchan and her followers: — 
" The Buchanites were a small community of enthusiasts, who believed the time to be at hand when 
there would neither be marriage nor givinc; in mnrrinc;e — when~the ground, instead of thistles and 
heather, would yield spontane'ously the fim -^t fruit-. — when all things under the sun would be in 
common — and 'Our Lady,' so they imM. il Mi^. I'.iichan, reign spiritual queen of the earth. 
At first they held the doctrine of immcdi.ilc tr.iiisl.uion, but a night spent in vyild prayer, wild 
song, and wilder sermons on the top of a cold hill rebuked this part of their belief, but strength- 
ened them in the opinion regarding their empire on earth; and confirmeti ' Our Lady ' in the 
resolution of making a tour through her imaginary dominions. She accordingly moved towards 
Nithsdale with all her people — some were in carts, some were on horseback, and not a few on foot 
She rode in front upon a white pony, and often halted to lecture them upon the loveliness of the 
land, and to cheer them with food from what she called her ' Garner of mercy,' and with drink 
from a large cup called ' The comforter.' She addressed all people as she passed along with 
much mildness, and spoke to them in the language of their callings. 'James Macleish,' she said 
to a gardener, who went to see her, ' quit Mr. Copland's garden, and come and work in that of the 
Lord.' — ' Thank ye,' answered James, ' but he was na owre kind to the last gardener he had.' 
'Our Lady' died at Auchengibard-hill in Galloway, and her followers were dispersed. A few oi 
the more resolute believers took a farm: the women spun and made large quantities of linen; the 
men ploughed and sowed, and made articles of turnery: their lives were inoffensive and their 
manners gentle: they are now all dead and gone." An interesting History of the Buchanites ha.*- 
been written by Mr. Joseph Train. 



w 



^€3 



^=\- 




THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 303 



No. XL 
TO MISS — 



[This and the following letter may be assigned to 1784-5.] 

My dear Countrywoman, 

I am so impatient to show yoti tliat I am once more at peace with 
you, that I send you the book I mentioned directly, rather than wait the 
uncertain time of my seeing you. I am afraid I have mislaid or lost 
Collins' Poems, which I promised to Miss Irvin. If I can find them, I 
will forward them bv vou : if not, you must apologize for me. 

I know you will laugh at it when I tell you that your piano and you to- 
gether have played the deuce somehow about my heart. My breast has 
been widowed these many months, and I thought myself proof against the 
fascinating witchcraft ; but I am afraid you will "feelingly convince me 
what I am." I say, I am afraid, because I am not sure what is the matter 
with me. I have one miserable bad sympton ; when you whisper, or look 
kindly to another, it gives me a draught of damnation. I have a kind of 
wayward wish to be with you ten minutes by yourself, though what I 
would say. Heaven above knows, for I am sure I know not. I have no 
formed design in all this ; but just, in the nakedness of my heart, write 
you down a mere matter-of-fact story. You may perhaps give yourself 
airs of distance on this, and that will completely cure me ; but I wish you 
would not : just let us meet, if you please, in the old beaten way of 
friendship. 

I will not subscribe myself your humble servant, for that is a phrase, I 
think, at least fifty miles off from my heart ; but I will conclude with sin- 
cerely wishing that the Cireat Protector of innocence may shield you 
from the barbed dart of calumny, and hand you by the covert snare 
of deceit. — R. B. 



TO MISS KENNEDY OF DALGARROCK. 

[Miss Margaret Kennedy, the young lady to whom this letter and the enclosed 
song (" Young Peggy ") were addressed, was the heroine of a melancholy story of 
betrayed love and cruel desertion : although now only seventeen years of age, the 
fatal intrigue with Captain M'Dowall of Logan had commenced; but, <jf course, 
nothing was suspected by any one at this time. Miss Kennedy's case furnished 
the theme for the affecting song, " Ye Banks and Braes o' Bonnie Doon."] 

Madam, 

Permit me to present you with the enclosed song, as a small though 
grateful tribute for the honour of your acquaintance. I have, in these 
verses, attempted some faint sketches of your portrait in the unembellished 
manner of descriptive truth. Flattery I leave to your lovers, whose 
exaggerating fancies may make them imagine you still nearer perfection 
than you really are. 

Poets, Madam, of all mankind, feel most forcibly the powers of beauty , 



# 



304 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




as. if they are really poets of Nature's making, their feelings must be 
finer, and their taste more delicate, than most of the world. In the 
cheerful bloom of spring, or the pensive mildness of autumn, the 
grandeur of summer, or the hoary majesty of winter, the poet feels a 
charm unknown to the rest of his species. Even the sight of a fine flower, 
or the company of a fine woman (by far the finest part of God's works 
below), have sensations for the poetic heart that the herd of men are 
strangers to. On this last account. Madam, I am, as in many other things, 
indebted to Mr. H.'s kindness in introducing me to you. Your lovers may 
view you with a wish, I look on you with pleasure : their hearts, in your 
presence, may glow with desire, mine rises with admiration. 

That the arrows of misfortune, however they should, as incident to 
humanity, glance a slight wound, may never reach your heart, — that the 
snares of villainy may never beset you on the road of life, — that innocence 
may hand you by the path of honour to the dwelling of peace, — is the 
sincere wish of him who has the honour to be, &c. — R. B. 

[The song enclosed, " Young Peggy," will be found in page 35.] 

No. XIII. 
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND, 

EDINBURGH. 

[John Richmond was an early friend of Burns' when clerk to the poet's patron 
and landlord, Mr. Gavin Hamilton, a Writer in Mauchline. Richmond was his 
companion in many a merry adventure at Mauchline, and afterwards received him 
in his lodging on his first arrival in Edinburgh.] 

Alv DEAR Sir, Mossgiel, February 17M, 1786. 

I have not time at present to upbraid you for your silence and 
neglect : I shall only say I received yours with great pleasure. I have 
enclosed you a piece of rhyming ware for your perusal. I have been 
very busy with the Muses since I saw you. and have comp(^ed, among 
several others, "The Ordination,'" a poem on Mr. M'Kinlay's being called 
to Kilmarnock ; '' Scotch Drink," a poem ; " The Cotter's Saturday Night ; '' 
"An Address to the Devil," &c. I have likewise completed my poem on 
the " Dogs," but have not shown it to the world. My chief patron now is 
Mr. Aiken in Ayr, who is pleased to express great approbation of my 
works. Be so good as send me Fergusson, by Connel, and I will remit 
you the money. I have no news to acquaint you with about Mauchline; 
they are just going on in the old way. I have some very important news 
with respect to myself, not the most agreeable — news that I am sure you 
cannot guess, but I shall give you the particulars another time. I am 
extremely happy with Smith ; he is the only friend I have now in Mauch- 
ine. I can scarcely forgive your long neglect of me, and I beg you will 
let me hear from you regularly by Connel. If you would act your part as 
a friend, I am sure neitlier good nor bad fortune should strange or alter 
me. Excuse haste, as I got yours but yesterday. 

i am. my dear Sir, 

Yours. — R. B. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. S^b 

No. XIV. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, 



[This is the last of the Poet's letters to which he has written his name 
Burness. Before this he had sometimes signed it as it now appears ; and 
as his poems were about to go to the press, he decided upon abiding liy 
Burns.] 

Dear Sir Mobsgiel, 2o^/« j/arc,;, 1786. 

I am heartily sorry I had not tlie pleasure of seeing you as you 
returned through Mauchline ; but as I was engaged, I could not be in 
town before the evening. 

I here inclose you my " Scotch Drink," and •' may the follow with 

a blessing for your edification." I hope, sometime before we hear the 
gowk, to have the pleasure of seeing you at Kilmarnock, when I intend 
v/e phall have a gill between us in a mutchkin-stoup ; which will be a great 
comfrrt and consolation to. 

Dear Sir, your humble Servant, 

Robert Burness. 



TO MR. DAVID BRICE. 

' Burns had issued proposals for publishing his poems. In a letter written in 
April, 1 786, and supposed to be addressed to Mr. Ballantine of Ayr, he refers to 
tlie intended publication, and adds concerning his unhappy affair with Jean 
Armour — " Old Mr. Armour prevailed with him (Mr. Aiken) to mutilate that un- 
lucky paper^ yesterday. Would you believe it? — though I had not a hope, nor 
even a wish, to make her mine after her conduct, yet when he told me, the names 
«ere all out of the paper, my heart died within me, and he cut my veins with 
the news." To David Brice, a shoemaker in Glasgow, Burns speaks more 
fully.] • 

Dear Brice, Mossgiel, 7««? 12M, 1786. 

I received your message by G. Paterson, and as I am not very 
throng at present, I just write to let you know that- there is such a worth- 
less, rhyming reprobate, as your humble .servant, still in the land of the 
living, though I can scarcely say, in the place of hope. I have no news to 
tell you that will give me any pleasure to mention, or you to hear. 

Poor ill-advised, ungrateful Armour came home on Friday last. You 
have heard all the particulars of that affair, and a black affair it is. What 
she thinks of her conduct now, I don't know ; one thing I do know — she 
has made me completely miserable. Never man loved, or rather adored, 
a woman more than I did her : and, to confess a truth between you and 

1 This was of course the informal marriage contract he had signed with Jear 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



me, I do still love her to distraction after all, though I won't tell her so if 
I were to see her, which I don't want to do. My poor dear unfortunate 
Jean! how happy have I been in thy arms! It is not the losing her that 
makes me so unhappy, but for her sake I feel most severely : I foresee she 
is in the road to, I. am afraid, eternal ruin. 

May Almighty God forgive her ingratitude and perjury tc me- as I from 
my very soul forgive her; and may His grace be with her and bless her 
in all her future life! I can have no nearer idea of the place of eternal 
punishment than what I have felt in my own breast on her account. I 
have tried often to forget her ; I have run into all kinds of dissipation and 
riots, mason-meetings, drinking matches, and other mischief, to drive her 
out of my head, but all in vain. And now for a grand cure : the ship is 
on her way home that is to take me out to Jamaica; and then, farewell 
dear old Scotland ! and farewell clear ungrateful Jean ! for never, never 
will I see you more. 

You will have heard that I am going to commence poet in print ; and 
to-morrow my works go to the press. I expect it will be a volume of 
about two hundred pages — it is just the last foolish action I intend to do ; 
and then turn a wise man as fast as possible. 

Believe me to be, dear Brice, 

Your Friend and Well-wisher, 

R. B. 



No. XVI. 
TO JOHN RICHMOND, 

EDINBURGH. 




MosSGlKi., 9//; July, 17S6. 



I have waited on Armour since her return home ; not from the least 
view of reconciliation, but merely to ask for her health, and, to you I will 
confess it, from a foolish hankering fondness, very ill-placed indeed. The 
mother forbade me the house, nor did Jean show that penitence that'might 
have been expected. However, the priest, I am informed, will give me a 
certificate as a single man, if I comply with the rules of the Church, which 
for that very reason I intend to do. 

I am going to put on sackcloth and ashes this day. I am indulged so 
hir as to appear in my own seat. 

Pcccavi, pater; miserere me. 

My book will be ready in a fortnight. If you have any subscribers 
return them by Connell (the carrier). The Lord stand with the righteous. 
Anier, Amen ! 

R. h 




iJr THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



k 




No. XVII. 
TO MR. DAVID BRICE, 

SHOEMAKER, GLASGOW. 

MOSSGIEL, \-]tk July, 1786. 

I HAVE been so throng printing my Poems, that I could scarcely find 
as much time as to write to you Poor Armour is come back again to 
Alauchline, and I went to call for her, and her mother forbade me the 
house; nor did she herself express much sorrow for what she has done. 
I have already appeared publicly in church, and was indulged in the 
liberty of standing in my own seat. I do this to get a certificate as a 
bachelor, which Mr. Auld has promised me. I am now fixed to go for 
the West Indies in October. Jean and her friends insisted much that 
she should stand along with me in the kirk, but the minister would not 
allow it, which bred a great trouble, I assure you, and I am blamed as the 
cause of it, though I am sure I am innocent ; but I am very much pleased, 
for all that, not to have had her company. I have no news to tell you 
that I remember. I am really happy to hear of your welfare, and that you 
are so well in (ilasgow. J must certainly see you before I leave the coup- 
try. I shall expect to hear from you soon, and am. 

Dear Brice. yours, 

R. B. 

No. XVIII. 
TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 
My dear Richmond, *Jld Rome Forest, 30M July, 1786 • 

My hour is now come — you and I will never meet in Britain more. 
I have orders, within three weeks at farthest, to repair aboard the 
" Nancy," Captain Smith, from Clyde to Jamaica, and to call at Antigua. 
This, except to our friend Smith, whom God long preserve, is a secret 
about Mauchline. Would you believe it? Armour has got a warrant to 
throw me in jail till I find security for an enormous sum. This they keep 
an entire secret, but I got it by a channel they little dream of; and I am 
wandering from one friend's house to another, and, like a true son of the 
Gospel, " have nowhere to lay my head." I know you will pour an exe- 
cration on her head, but spare the poor, ill-advised girl, for my sake ; 
though may all the furies that rend the injured, enraged lover's bosom, 
await her mother until her latest hour ! I write in a moment of rage, re- 
flecting on my miserable situation — exiled, abandoned, forlorn. I can 
write no more. Let me hear from you by the return of coach. I will 
write you ere I go. 

I am, dear Sir, 

Yours, here and hereafter, 

R. B. 

' The Poet, when he wrote this letter, was skulking from Carrick to Kyle, ;''">d from Kyle to 
Carrick : " Some ill-advised persons," he said, " had uncoupled the merciless pack of the law at 
his heels." This was done, lio-vevcr, merely to get him to quit the country. 





^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. XIX. 
TO MONS. JAMES SMITH, 



Mv DEAR Sir Monday jiiorniug, Mossgiel \^August, 1786]. 

I went to Dr. Douglas yesterday, fully resolved to take the oppor- 
tunity of Captain Smith ; but I found the Doctor with a Mr. and Mrs. 
White, both Jamaicans, and they deranged my plans altogether. They 
assure him that to send me from Savannah-la-Mar to Port Antonio 
will cost my master, Chas. Douglas, upwards of fifty pounds ; besides 
running the risk of throwing myself into a .pleuritic fever in consequence 
of hard travelling in the sun. On these accounts, he refuses sending me 
with Smith, but a vessel sails from Greenock the first of September, right 
for the place of my destination. The Captain of her is an intimate friend 
of Mr. Gavin Hamilton's, and as good a fellow as heart could wish : with 
him I am destined to go. Where I shall shelter I know not, but I hope 
to weather the storm. Perish the drop of blood of mine that fears them ! 
1 know their worst, and am prepared to meet it : — 

" I'll laugh, an' sing, an* shake my leg, 
As lang's I dow." 

On Thursday morning, if you can muster as much self-denial as to be 
out of bed about seven o'clock, I shall see you as I ride through to Cum- 
nock. After all, Heaven bless the sex! I feel there is still happiness for 
me among them : — 



■ O woman, lovely woman I Heaven designed you 
To temper man ! — we had been brutes witliout you ! " 



R. B. 




No. XX. 
TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY. 

[It was towards the end of July, 17S6, that "Poems, chiefly in the Scottish 
Dialect, by Robert Burns," was published, and the following letter was written 
in the course of the next month.] 

Mv DKAIl Sir, Kilm.\rnock, August, 1786. 

Your truly facetious epistle of the 3d inst, gave me much entertain- 
ment. I was sorry I had not the pleasure of seeing you as I passed your 
way, but we shall bring up all our lee way on Wednesday, the i6th cur- 
rent, when I hope to have it in my power to call on you and take a kind, 
very probably a last adieu, before I go for Jamaica ; and I expect orders 
to repair to Greenock every day. I have at last made my public appear- 
ance, and am solemnly inaugurated into the numerous class. Could I 
have got a carrier, you sliould have had a score of vouchers for my 
Authorship: but now you have them let them speak for themselves. 





n 



^ 



r//£ LETTERS OF BURNS. 



Farewell, dear Friend! may guid luck hit you 
And 'mang her favourites admit you ! 
If e'er Detraction shore to smit you, 

May nane believe him! 
And ony de'il that thinks to get you, 

Good Lord deceive him. 




R. B. 



No. XXI. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR, 

KILM.A.R.NOCK. 

Mv Friend, MY Brother. vio?.%o\^\., Friday 7won {Sept. r'l. 

You will have heard that poor Armour has repaid me douljle. A very 
fine boy and a girl have awakened a thought and feelings that thrill, some 
with tender pressure and some with foreboding anguish, through my soul. 

I believe all hopes of staying at home will be abortive, but more of this 
when, in the latter part of next week, you shall be troubled with a visit 
from, 

My dear Sir, 

Your most devoted, 

R. B. 

No. XXII. 
TO MR. BURNES, 

MONTROSE. 

My dear Sir, Mossgiel, Sept. itth, i-se. 

I this moment receive yours — receive it with the honest hospitable 
warmth of a friend's welcome. Whatever comes from you wakens always 
up the better blood about my heart, which your kind little recollections of 
my paternal friends carries as far as it will go. 'Tis there that man is 
blest ! 'Tis there, my friend, man feels a consciousness of something 
within him above the trodden clod ! The grateful reverence to the hoary 
(earthly) author of his being — the burning glow when he clasps the 
woman of his soul to his bosom — the tender yearnings of heart for the 
little angels to whom he has given existence — these nature has poured in 
milky streams about the human heart ; and the man who never rouses 
them to action, by the inspiring influences of their proper objects, loses 
by far the most pleasurable part of his existence. 

My departure is uncertain, but I do not think it will be till after harvest. 
I will be on very short allowance of time indeed, if I do not comply with 
your friendly invitation. 

R. B, 




-ti 



THE J.ETTERS OE BURNS. 



TO MR. ROBERT AIKEN. 

[To the suffering of remorse and humiliation which befell Burns through Jean 
Armour, was added, about this time, the hitter grief of learning Highland Mary's 
death.] 

J5IR - Ayrshire [(9c/.], 1786. 

I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day; and settled all our by- 
gone matters between us. After I had paid him all demands, I made 
him the offer of the second edition, on the hazard of being paid out of 
the first and readiest, which he declines. By his account, the paper of a 
thousand copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, and the printing 
about fifteen or sixteen : he offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will 
advance for the paper, but this you know is out of my power ; so farewell 
hopes of a second edition till I grow richer! an epocha which, I think, 
will arrive at the payment of the British national debt. 

There is scarcely anything hurts me so much in being disappointed of 
my second edition, as not having it in my power to show my gratitude to 
Mr. Ballantine, by publishing my poem of •' The Brigs of Ayr." I would 
detest myself as a wretch, if I thought I were capable in a very long life 
of forgetting the honest, warm, and tender delicacy with which he enters 
into my interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself in my grateful 
sensations ; but I believe, on the whole, I have very little merit in it, as 
my gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of reflection ; but sheerly 
the instinctive emotion of my heart, too inattentive to allow worldly 
ma.xims and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations and movements within, re- 
specting the Excise. There are many things plead strongly against it : the 
uncertainty of getting soon into business; the consequences of my follies, 
which may perhaps make it impracticable for me to stay at home ; and 
besides I have for some time been pining under secret wretchedness, from 
causes which you pretty well know — the pang of disappointment, the sting 
of pride, with some wandering stabs of remorse, which never fail to settle 
on my vitals like vultures, when attention is not called away by the calls 
of society, or the vagaries of the Muse. Even in the hour of social mirth. 
my gayety is the madness of an intoxicated criminal under the hands of 
the executioner. All these reasons urge me to go abroad, and to all these 
reasons I have only one answer — the feelings of a father. This, in the 
present mood I am in, overbalances everything that can be laid in the 
scale against it. . . . 

You may perhaps think it an extravagant fancy, but it is a sentiment 
which strikes home to my very soul : though sceptical on some points of 
o\w current belief, yet, I think, I have every evidence for the reality of a 
life beyond the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if so, then, how- 
should I, in the presence of that tremendous Being, the Author of exist- 
ence, how should I meet the reproaches of those who stand to me in the 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



dear relation of children, wliom I deserted in the smiling innocency of 
helpless infancv? O Thou great unknown Power! — Thou Almighty (Jod ! 
who hast lighted up reason in my breast, and blessed me with immortality ! 
— I have frequently wandered from that order and regularity necessary for 
the perfection of Thy works, yet Thou hast never left me nor forsaken 
me ! . . . 

Since I wrote the foregoing sheet. I have seen something of the storm 
of mischief thickening over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my 
friends, mv benefactors, be successful in your applications for me. perhaps 
it may not be in my power in that way to reap the fruit of your friendly 
efforts. What I have written in the preceding pages, is the settled tenor 
of my present resolution ; but should inimical circumstances forbid me 
closing with your kind offer, or enjoying it only threaten to entail farther 
misery . . . 

To tell the truth, I have little reason for complaint; as the world, in 
general, has been kind to me fully up to my deserts. I was, for some time 
past, fast getting into the pining distrustful snarl of the misanthrope. I 
saw myself alone, unfit for the struggle of life, shrinking at every rising 
cloud in the chance-directed atmosphere of fortune, while, all defenceless, 
I looked about in vain for a cover. It never occurred to me, at least 
never with the force it deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and man, 
a creature destined for a progressive struggle ; and that, however I might 
possess a warm heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by the by, was 
rather more than I could well boast), still, more than these passive quali- 
ties, there was something to be done. When all m_\- schoolfellows and 
vouthful compeers (those misguided few excepted who joined, to use a 
Gentoo phrase, the "hallachores" of the human race) were striking off 
with eager hope and earnest intent, in some one or other of the many 
paths of busy life, T was " standing idle in the market-place," or only left 
the chase of the butterfly from flower to flower, to hunt fancy from whim 
to whim. . . . 

You see. Sir, that if to know one's errors were a probability of mending 
them, I stand a fair chance : but, according to the reverend Westminster 
divines, though conviction must precede conversion, it is very far from 
always implying it. — R. B. 

Xo. XXIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP 

OF DUNLOP. 

[While suffering from the depression consequent upon a long and painful sick- 
ness, Mrs. Dunlop happened to meet with the " Cotter's .Saturday N"ight," and was 
so stirred and delighted with it, that she at once despatched a messenger to Moss- 
giel, some fifteen miles off, with a letter expressing her admiration, and an order 
for half a dozen copies of the Kilmarnock edition of Burns' Poems.] 

.Madam, Ayrshire, 1786. 

I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday, when I was so much 
honoured with your order for my copies, and incomparably more by the 




s 



:ti 



312 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

handsome compliments you are pleased to pay my poetic abilities. I am 
fully persuaded that there is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive 
to the titillations of applause as the sons of Parnassus : nor is it easy to 
conceive how the heart of the poor bard dances with rapture, when those, 
whose character in life gives them a right to be polite judges, honour 
him with their approbation. Had you been thoroughly acquainted with 
me, Madam, you could not have touched my chn-ling heart-chord more 
sweetly than by noticing my attempts to celebrate your illustrious ances- 
tor, the saviour of his country. 

" Great patriot hero! ill-requited chief! " ' 

The first book I met with in my early years, whicli I perused with pleas- 
ure, was "The Life of Hannibal;" the next was '-The History of Sir 
William Wallace : " for several of my earlier years I had few other authors ; 
and many a solitary hour have I stole out, after the laborious vocations of 
the day, to shed a tear over their glorious but unfortunate stories. In 
those boyish days I remember, in particular, being struck with that part of 
Wallace's story where these lines occur — 

" Syne to the Leglen wood, when it was late, 
To make a silent and a safe retreat." 

I chose a fine summer Sunday, the only day my line of life allowed, and 
walked half a dozen of miles to pay my respects to the Leglen wood, with 
as much devout enthusiasm as ever pilgrim did to Loretto ; and, as I ex- 
plored every den and dell where I could suppose my heroic countryman 
to have lodged, I recollect (for even then I was a rhymer) that my heart 
glowed with a wish to be able to make a song on him in some measure 
equal to his merits. — R. B. 

No. XXV. 
TO MRS. .STEWART 

OK STAIR. 

Madam, 1786. 

The hurry of my preparations for going abroad has hindered me 
from performing my i)romise so soon as I intended. I have here sent you 
a parcel of songs, &c., which never made their appearance, except to a 
friend or two at most. Perhaps some of them may be no great entertain- 
ment to you, but of that I am far from being an adequate judge. The 
song to the tune of " Ettrick Banks " [The Bonnie Lass of Ballochmyle] 
you will easily see the impropriety of exposing much, even in manuscript. 
1 think, myself, it has some merit : both as a tolerable description of one 
of nature's sweetest scenes, a July evening ; and one of the finest pieces of 
nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we know anything of, an amiable, 
beautiful young woman ; - but I have no common friend to procure me 
that permission, without which I would not dare to spread the copy. 

' j\Irs. Dunlop, a daughter of Sir Thomas Wallace of Craigie, was descended from the brother 
of the hero. 

- Miss Alexander. 



r^- 




m 



I HE LE 7 -TERS OE B URNS. 3 1 3 

I am quite aware, Madam, what task the world would assign me in tliis 
letter. The obscure bard, when any of the great condescend to take 
notice of him, should heap the altar with the incense of flattery. Their 
high ancestry, their own great and god-like qualities and actions, should 
be recounted with the most exaggerated description. This, Madam, is a 
task for whicli 1 am altogether unfit. Besides a certain disqualifying 
pride of heart, 1 know nothing of your connexions in life, and have no 
access to where your real character is to be found — the company of your 
compeers : and more, I am afraid that even the most refined adulation is 
by no means the road to your good opinion. 

One feature of your character I shall ever with grateful pleasure remem- 
ber ; — the reception 1 got when 1 had the honour of waiting on you at 
Stair. 1 1 am little acquainted with politeness, but I know a good deal of 
benevolence of temper and goodness of heart. Surely did those in ex- 
alted stations know how happy they could make some classes of their infe- 
riors by condescension and affability, they would never stand so high, 
measuring out with every look the height of their elevation, but condescend 
as sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. — R. B. 



No. XXVI. 
TO DR. MAfKKNZIE, 



INCI.OSINO HIM VKRSKS ON I)IMN(; WirU 1,()R!> DAER. 

[Of this meeting, wliich look place at Dugald Stewart's .summer lodgings at 
Catrine, a few miles from Mossgiel, the Professor has left the following account : — 
" His manners were then, as they continued ever afterwards, simple, manly, and 
independent ; stronijiy expressive of conscious genius and worth, l)ut without any- 
thing that indicated forwardness, arrogance, and vanity. Pie took his share in con- 
versation, but not more than belonged to him; and listened with apparent atten- 
tii)n and deference on subjects where his want of education deprived him of the 
means of information. If there had been a little more of gentleness and accom- 
modation in his temper, he would, I think, have been still more interesting; but 
he had been accustomed to give law in the circle of his ordinary acquaintance, 
and his dread of anything approaching to meanness and servility rendered his 
manner somewhat decided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more remarkable 
among his various attainments than the fluency, and precision, and originality of 
his language when he spoke in company, more particularly as he aimed at purity 
in his turn of expression, and avoided more successfully than most Scotchmen the 
peculiarities of Scottish phraseology."] 

Dear Sir, Monday mprni,ig{Oct.'\. 

1 never spent an afternoon among great folks with half that pleasure 
as when, in company with you, I had the honour of paying my devoirs to 

1 Burns had accompanied a friend on a courting expedition to Mrs. Stewart's house, and the 
report of his genial humour and poetical powers having reached the parlour from the servants' 
room, Rums was invited to an interview with the lady of the house. 





314 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



that plain, honest, worthy man, the Professor [Dugald Stewart]. I would 
be delighted to see him perform acts of kindness and friendship, though I 
were not the object ; he does it with such a grace. I think his character, 
divided into ten parts, stands thus — four parts Socrates — four parts Na- 
thaniel — and two parts Shakspeare's Brutus. 

The foregoing verses (see page iii) were really extempore, but a little 
corrected since. They may entertain you a little with the help of that 
partiality with which you are so good as to favour the performances of 

Dear Sir, 
Your very humble Servant, 

R. B. 





]No. XXVII. 

TO MISS ALEXANDER. 

[Burns, walking one evening in the private grounds ot Ballochmyle, met Miss 
Wilhelmina Alexander, the laird's sister, who, surprised to see a stranger there, 
started and hurried on. It was as an apology for this intrusion that Burns com- 
posed the poem referred to in the following letter. The lady's interpretation of 
its meaning was coloured by unfavourable reports of Burns' character, and neither 
letter nor poem was ever acknowledged. Miss Alexander died in 1843, ^^ 'he age 
of 88.] 

Madam, Mossgiel, iSM Noveviber, 1786. 

Poets are such outre beings, so much the children of wayward 
fancy and capricious whim, that I believe the world generally allows them 
a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than the sober sons of judgment 
and prudence. I mention this as an apology for the liberties that a name- 
less stranger has taken with you in the inclosed poem, which he begs 
leave to present you with. Whether it has poetical merit any way worthy 
of the theme, I am not the proper judge ; but it is the best my abilities 
can produce ; and what to a good heart will, perhaps, be a superior grace, 
it is equally sincere as fervent. 

The scenery was nearly taken from real life, though I dare say. Madam, 
you do not recollect it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 7-eveur 
as he wandered by you. I had roved out as chance directed, in the 
favourite haunts of my Muse, on the banks of the Ayr. to view nature in 
all the gaiety of the vernal year. The evening sun was flaming over the 
distant western hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson opening blossom, 
or the verdant spreading leaf It was a golden moment for a poetic heart. 
I listened to the feathered warblers, pouring their harmony on every 
hand, with a congenial kindred regard, and frequently turned out of my 
path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or frighten them to another 
station. Surely, said I to myself, he must be a wretch indeed, who, 
regardless of your harmonious endeavour to please him, can eye your 
elusive flights to discover your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the 
property nature gives you — your dearest comforts, your helpless nestlings. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




Even the hoary hawthorn twig that shot across the way, what heart at 
such a tune but must have been interested in its welfare, and wished it 
preserved from the rudely-browsing cattle, or the withering eastern blast? 
Such was the scene. — and such the hour, when in a corner of my pros- 
pect, I spied one of the fairest pieces of nature's workmanship that ever 
crowned a poetic landscape or met a poet's eye, those visionary bards 
excepted, who hold commerce with aerial beings! Had Calumny and 
Villany taken my walk, they had at that moment sworn eternal peace with 
such an object. 

What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It would have raised plain 
dull historic prose into metaphor and measure. 

The inclosed song was the work of my return home ; and perhaps 
it but poorly answers what might have been expected from such a 
scene. . . . 

I have the honour to be. Madam, 

Your most obedient and very humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. XXVIII. 

TO WILLIAM CHALMERS AND JOHN McADAM. 

In the name of the NINE. Amen ! 

We, Robert Burns, by virtue of a warrant from Nature, bearing date 
the twenty-fifth day of January, Anno Domini one thousand seven hundred 
and fifty-nine, 1 Poet Laureat, and Bard in Chief, in and over the districts 
and countries of Kyle, Cunningham, and Carrick, of old extent. To our 
trusty and well-beloved William Chalmers and John McAdam, student 
practitioners in the ancient and mysterious science of confounding right 
and wrong. 

Right Trusty: 

Be it known unto you that whereas in the course of our care and 
watchings over the order and police of all and sundry the manufacturers, 
retainers, and vendors of poesy ; bards, poets, poetasters, rhymers, jin- 
glers, songsters, ballad-singers, &c. &c. &c. &c. -male and female — 
We have discovered a certain nefarious, abominable, and wicked song or 
ballad, a copy whereof We have here inclosed ; Our Will therefore is, 
that Ye pitch upon and appoint the most execrable individual of tha'c 
most execrable species, known by the appellation, phrase, and nickname 
of The Deil's Yell Nowte : - and after having caused him to kindle a fire 
at the Cross of Ayr, ye shall, at noontide of the day, put into the said 
wretch's merciless hands the said copy of the said nefarious and wicked 

' His birthday. 

- " The deil's yell nowte," according to Gilbert Burns, is here used as a scoffing epithet applied 
'o sheriffs' officers, and other executors of the law. 





±£. 



S 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



song, to be consumed by fire in the presence of all beholders, in abhor- 
rence of, and terrorem to, all such compositions and composers. And 
this in nowise leave ye undone, but have it executed in every point as this 
our mandate bears, before the twenty-fourth current, when in person w.- 
hope to applaud your faithfulness and zeal. 

(iiven at Mauchline this twentieth day of November, Anno Domini 
one thousand seven hundred and eighty-six. 

God save the Hard I 



TO MR. ROHKRT MUIR. 

[The Edinburgh expedition was undertaken in consequence of the following 
letter, writen by the blind poet, Thomas Blacklock, to the Rev. Mr. Lawrie, from 
whom it passed through Gavin Hamilton to Burns : — 

" I ought to have acknowledged your favour long ago, not only as a testimony of 
your kind remembrance, but as it gave me an opportunity of sharing one of the 
finest, and perhaps one of the most genuine entertainments, of which the human 
mind is susceptible. A number of avocations retarded my progress in reading the 
poems; at last, however, I have finished that pleasing perusal. Many instances 
have 1 seen of nature's force and beneficence, exerted under numerous and formid- 
able disadvantages; but none equal to that with which you have been kind enough 
to present me. There is a pathos and delicacy in his serious poems; a vein of wit 
and humour in those of a more festive turn, which cannot be too much admired, 
nor too warmly approved; and I think I shall never open the book without feeling 
my astonishment renewed and increased. It was my wish to have expressed my 
approbation in verse; but whether from declining life, or a temporary depression 
of spirits, it is at present out of my power to accomplish that agreeable intention. 
Mr. Stewart, Professor of morals in this University, had formerly read me three of 
the poems, and I had desired him to get my name inserted among the subscribers : 
but whether this was done or not I never could learn. I have little intercourse 
with Dr. Blair, but will take care to have the poems communicated to him by the 
intervention of some mutual friend. It has been told me by a gentleman, to whom 
I showed the performances, and who sought a copy with diligence and ardour, that 
the whole impression is already exhausted. It were therefore much to be wished, 
for the sake of the young man, that a second edition, more numerous than tht 
former, could immediately be printed; as it appears certain that its intrinsic merit, 
and the exertion of the author's friends, might give it a more universal circulation 
than anything of the kind which has been published within my memory."] 

My dear Sir, Mossgiei., M/i A>v/«/vr, 1786. 

Inclosed you have " Tam Samson," as I intend to print him. I 
ain thinking for my Edinburgh expedition on Monday or Tuesday, come 
se"nnight, for pos. I will see you on Tuesday first. 

I am ever. 

Your much indebted. 

R. B. 



Jfl, 



¥ 



THE LETTERS OE BUrNS. 



No. XXX. 
TO (;aVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., 

MAUCHLINE. 



[Burns reached Edinburgh on his first visit on the 28th November. Through 
Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, near Ayr, Burns was introduced to that gentleman's 
l)rother-in-la\v. Lord Glencairn, to the Hon. Henry Erskine, and other influential 
people. Gavin Hamilton, a Writer in Mauchline, was one of Burns' chief patrons 
in Ayrshire.! 

Honoured Sir, Edinburgh, December ytk, 1786. 

I have paid every attention to your commands, but can only say 
what perhaps you will have heard before this reach you, that Muirkirk- 
lands were bought by a John Gordon, W.S.. but for whom I know not; 
Mauchlands, Haugh Mill, ^:c., by a Frederick Fotheringham, supposed 
to be for Ballochmyle Laird, and Adam-hill and Shawood were bought 
for Oswald's folks. This is so imperfect an account, and will be so late 
ere it reach you, that were it not to discharge my conscience I would not 
trouble you with it ; but after all my diligence I could make it no sooner 
nor better. 

For my own affairs, I am in a fair way of becoming as eminent as 
Thomas a Kempis or Jolin Bunyan ; and you may expect henceforth to 
see my birthday inserted among the wonderful events, in the Poor 
Robin's and Aberdeen Almanacks, along with the Black Monday, and the 
battle of Bothwell Bridge. My Lord Glencairn and the Dean of Faculty, 
Mr. H. Erskine, have taken me under their wing ; and by all probability 
I shall soon be the tenth worthy, and the eighth wise man of the world. 
Through my Lord's influence it is inserted in the records of the Caledonian 
Hunt, that they universally, one and all, subscribe for the second edition. 
My subscription bills come out to-morrow, and you shall have some of 
them next post. I have inet, in Mr. Dalrymple. of Orangelield, what 
Solomon emphatically calls " a friend that sticketh closer than a brother." 
The warmth with which he interests himself in my affairs is of the same 
enthusiastic kind which you. Mr. Aiken, and the few patrons that took 
notice of my earlier poetic days showed for the poor unlucky devil of a 
poet. 

I always remember Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy in my poetic 
prayers, but you both in prose and verse. 




May cauld ne'er catch you but a hap, 
Nor hunger but in plenty's lap! 
Amen ! 



R. B 




.tl 



THE LETTERS 01' BURNS. 



I 



No. XXXI. 
TO JAMES DALRVMPLE, ESQ., OF ORANGEFIELD. 

Dear Sir, [Dcce7>!berio, lyZo-i] 

I suppose the devil is so elated with his success, with you, that he 
is determined by a coiep de main to complete his purposes on you all at 
once, in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you sent me — 
hummed over the rhymes — and as I saw they were extempore, said to 
myself they were very well ; but when I saw at the bottom a name that I 
shall ever value with grateful respect, " I gapit wide, but naething spak." 
I was nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of affliction-bearing 
memory, when they sat down with him seven days and seven nights, and 
spake not a word. . . . 

I am naturally of a superstitious cast ; and as soon as my wonder- 
scared imagination regained its consciousness, and resumed its functions, 
I cast about what this mania of yours might portend. My foreboding 
ideas had the wide stretch of possibility ; and several events, great in their 
magnitude, and important in their consequences, occurred to my fancy. 
The downfall of the conclave, or the crushing of the cork rumps — a ducal 
coronet to Lord George Gordon, and the Protestant interest, or St. Peter's 
keys to . 

You want to know how I come on. I am just in statu quo, or, not to 
insult a gentleman with my Latin, in " auld use and wont." The noble 
Earl of Glencairn took me by the hand to-day, and interested himself in 
my concerns, with a goodness like that benevolent being whose image he 
so richly bears. He is a stronger proof of the immortality of the soul 
than any that philosophy ever produced. A mind like his can never die. 
Let the worshipful Squire H. L., or the Reverend Mass J. M., go into 
their primitive nothing. At best, they are but ill-digested lumps of 
chaos — only, one of them strongly tinged with bituminous particles and 
sulphurous effluvia. But my noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell of 
magnanimity, and the generous throb of benevolence, shall look on with 
princely eye at " the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and the crush 
of worlds. " — R. B. 



No. XXXII. 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ., 

BANKER, AYR. 
My honoured Friend, Edinburgh, 13/// December, 1786. 

I would not write you till I could have it in my power to give you 
some account of myself and my matters, which by the by is often no easy 
task. I arrived here on Tuesday was se'nnight, and have suffered ever 
since I came to town with a miserable head-ache and stomacti complaint, 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



3^9 



but am now a good deal better. I have found a worthy warm friend in 
Mr. Dalrymple, of Orangefield, who introduced me to Lord Glencairn, 
a man whose worth and brotherl}- kindness to me I shall remember 
when time shall be no more. By his interest it is passed in the " Caledo- 
nian Hunt,"' and entered in their books, that they are to take each a 
copy of the second edition, for which they are to pay one guinea. — I have 
been introduced to a good many of the noblesse, but my avowed patrons 
and patronesses are, the Duchess of Gordon — the Countess of Glen- 
cairn, with my Lord, and Lady Betty' — the Dean of Faculty — Sir John 
Whitefoord. I have likewise warm friends among the literati : Pro- 
fessors Stewart, Blair, and Mr. Mackenzie — the Man of Feeling. An 
unknown hand left ten guineas for the Ayrshire Bard with Mr. Sibbald, 
which I got. I since have discovered my generous unknown friend to be 
Patrick Miller, Esq., brother to the Justice Clerk; and drank a glass of 
claret with him by invitation at his own house yesternight. I am nearly 
agreed with Creech to print my book, and I suppose I will begin on 
Monday. I will send a subscription bill or two, next post ; when I intend 
writing my first kind patron, Mr. Aiken. I saw his son to-day, and he is 
very well. 

Dugald Stewart, and some of my learned friends, put me in the periodi- 
cal paper called the Lounger,- a copy of which I here inclose you. I was, 
Sir, when I was first honoured with your notice, too obscure ; now I 
tremble lest I should be ruined by being dragged too suddenly into the 
glare of polite and learned observation. 

I shall certainly, my ever-honoured patron, write you an account of my 
every step ; and better health and more spirits may enable me to make it 
something better than this stupid matter-of-fact epistle 
I have the honour to be. 
Good Sir, 
Your ever grateful humble Servant, 

R. B. 

1 Lady Betty Cunningham, sister of Lord Glencairn. 

2 The paper here alluded to was written by Mr. Mackenzie, the celebrated author of " The Man 
of Feeling." It recognizes in the poems "a genius of no ordinary rank," remarkable in itself 
without reference to the natural wonder excited by the fact that they were written by a man of 
such humble rank, without the advantages of a good education. " The power of genius," Mr. 
Mackenzie proceeds, "is not less admirable in tracing the manners, than in painting the passions 
or in dn-Jwing the scenery of nature. The intuitive glance with which a writer like Shakspeare 
discerns the characters of men, with which he catches the many changing hues of life, forms a sort 
of problem in the science of mind, of which it is easier to see the truth than to assign the cause. 
Though I am very far from meaning to compare our rustic bard to Shakspeare, yet whoever will 

read his lighter and more humorous poems, his Dialogue of the Dogs, his Dedication toG H , 

Esq., his Epistle to a Young Friend, and to W S -, will perceive with what uncommon pene- 
tration and sagacity this heaven-taught ploughman, from his humble and unlettered station, has 
looked upon men and things." Mackenzie then referred to the mislortunes which, as he had 
heard most probably from Dugald Stewart, had befallen the bard, and expressed a hope that 
some means might he found to provide for him in his native land. 






^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. XXXIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

MV DEAR Friend. Edinburgh, December loth, 1786. 

I have just time for the carrier, to tell you that I received your 
letter ; of which I shall say no more but what a lass of my acquaintance 
said of her bastard wean; she said she "did na ken wha was the father 
exactly, but she suspected it was some o' thae bonny blackguard smugglers, 
for it was like them." So I only say your obliging epistle was like you. 
I inclose you a parcel of subscription bills. Your affair of sixty copies is 
also like you : l^ut it would not be like me to comply. 

Your friend's notion of my life has put a crotchet in my head of sketch- 
ing it in some future epistle to you. My compliments to Charles and Mr. 
Parker. — R. B. 

No. XXXIV. 
TO MR. WILLIAM C?IALMERS, 

WRrrER, AYR. 
My dear Friend Edinburgh, December i-^th, 1786. 

I confess I have sinned the sin for which there is hardly any for- 
giveness — ingratitude to friendship — in not writing you sooner; but of 
all men living, I had intended to have sent you an entertaining letter ; and 
Dy all the plodding, stupid powers, that in nodding, conceited majesty, 
preside over the dull routine of business — a heavily solemn oath this! — 
I am, and have been, ever since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a 
letter of humour, as to write a commentary on tiie Revelation of St. John 
the Divine, who was banished to the Isle of Patmos, by the cruel and 
bloody Domitian, son to Vespasian and brother to Titus, both emperors of 
Rome, and who was himself an emperor, and raised the second or third per- 
secution, I forget which, against the Christians, and after throwing the 
said Apostle John, brother to the Apostle James, commonly called James 
the Greater, to distinguish him from another James, who was, on some 
account or other, known by the name of James the Less — after throwing 
him into a caldron of boiling oil, from which he was miraculously pre- 
served, he banished the poor son of Zebedee to a desert island in the 
Archipelago, where he was gifted with the second sight, and saw as many 
wild beasts as I have seen since I came to Edinburgh ; which, a circum- 
stance not very uncommon in story-telling, brings me back to where I set 
out. 

To make you some amends for what, before you reach this paragraph, 
you will have suffered, I inclose you two poems I have carded and spun 
since I passed Glenbuck. 

One blank in the Address 10 Edinburgh — '"Fair B ," is heavenly 

Miss Burnet, daughter to Lord Monboddo, at whose house I have had the 



If 





THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 3 2 1 



honour to be more than once. There has not been anything nearly hke 
her in all the combinations of beauty, grace, and goodness the great 
Creator has formed, since Milton's Eve on the first day of her existence. 
My direction is — care of Andrew Bruce, merchant, Bridge-street. 

R. B. 

No. XXXV. 
TO THE EARL OF EGLINTON. 

My Lord, Edinburgh, January, 1787. 

As I have but slender pretensions to philosophy, I cannot rise to 
the exalted ideas of a citizen of the world, but have all those national pre- 
judices, which I believe glow peculiarly strong in the breast of a Scotchman. 
There is scarcely anytliing to which I am so feelingly alive as the honour 
and welfare of my country : and as a poet, I have no higher enjoyment 
than singing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast my station in the 
veriest shades of life ; but never did a heart pant more ardently than mine 
to be distinguished ; though till very lately, I looked in vain on every side 
for a ray of light. It is easy then to guess how much I was gratified with 
the countenance and approbation of one of my country's most illustrious 
sons, when Mr. Wauchope called on me \'esterday on the part of your 
lordship.' Your munificence, my lord, certainly deserves my very grate- 
ful acknowledgements ; but your patronage is a bounty peculiarly suited to 
my feelings. I am not master enough of the etiquette of life to know, 
whether there be not some impropriety in troubling your lordship with my 
thanks, but my heart whispered me to do it. From the emotions of my 
inmost soul I do it. Selfish ingratitude I hope I am incapable of; and 
mercenary servility, I trust, I shall ever have so much honest pride as to 
detest. —R. B. 

No. XXXVL 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, ESQ. 

My honoured Friend, Edinburgh, Janicary 14, 1787. 

It gives me a secret comfort to observe in myself that I am not yet 
so far gone as Willie Gaw's Skate, " past redemption; "'- for I have still 
this favourable symptom of grace, that when my conscience, as in the case 
of this letter, tells me I am leaving something undone that I ought to do, 
it teazes me eternally till I do it. 

1 am still "dark as was Chaos" in respect to futurity. My generous 
friend, Mr. Patrick Miller, has been talking with me about the lease of 
some farm or other in an estate called Dalswinton, which he has -lately 
bought near Dumfries. Some life-rented embittering recollections whisper 
me that I will be happier anywhere than in my old neighbourhood, but 

' Mr. Wauchope brought him ten guineas as a subscription for two copies of his second edition. 
- This is one of a great number of old saws that Burns, when a lad, had picked up from his 
mother, who had a vast collection of them. 



J 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



Mr. Miller is no judge of land ; and though I dare say he means to favour 
me, yet he may give me, in his opinion, an advantageous bargain that may 
ruin me. 1 am to take a tour by Dumfries as I return, and have promised 
to meet Mr. Miller on his lands some time in May. 

I went to a mason-lodge yesternight, where the most Worshipful Grand 
Master Chartres, and all the Grand Lodge of Scotland visited. The meet- 
ing was numerous and elegant ; all the different lodges about town were 
present, in all their pomp. The Grand Master, who presided with great 
solemnity and honor to himself as a gentleman and a mason, among other 
general toasts, gave " Caledonia, and Caledonia's Bard, Brother Burns.'" 
wliich rung through the whole assembly with multiplied honours and 
repeated acclamations. As 1 liad no idea such a thing would happen, 1 
was downright thunderstruck, and trembling in every nerve, made the best 
return in my power. Just as I had finished, some of the grand officers 
said, so loud that I could hear, with a most comforting accent, "Very 
well indeed ! " which set me something to rights again. 

1 have to-day corrected my I52d page. My best good wislies to Mr. 
Aiken. 

I am ever, dear -Sir, 
Your much indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 




No. XXXVII. 
TO THE SAME. 

While here I .sit, sad and solitary, by the side of a fire in a little 
country inn, and drying my wet clothes, in pops a poor fellow of a sodger, 
and tells me he is going to Ayr. By heavens ! say 'I to myself, with a tide 
of good spirits which the magic of that sound, Auld Toon o' Ayr, conjured 
up, I will send my last song to Mr. Ballantine. Here it is — 

Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fair; 
How can ye chant, ye little birds. 

And I sae fu' o' care? 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



323 



No. XXXVIII. 

TO TvIRS. DUNLOP. 

[This is an acknowledgment of some extracts which Mrs. Dunlop had sent 
Burns from her correspondence with Dr. Moore, author of "Zeluco," &c.] 

Madam, EDiNrii-RGH, 15//^ Jamiary, 1787. 

Yours of the 9th current, which I am this moment honoured with, 
is a deep reproach to me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the real 
truth, for 1 am miserably awkward at a fib — I wished to have written to 
Dr. Moore before 1 wrote to you ; but though every day since I received 
}ours of December 30th, the idea, the wish to write to him has constantly 
pressed on my thoughts, yet I could not for my soul set about it. I know 
his fame and character, and 1 am one of "the sons of little men." To 
write him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a merchant's order, would be 
disgracing the little character I have; and to write the author of "The 
View of Society and Manners'- a letter of sentiment — 1 declare every 
artery runs cold' at the thought. I shall try, however, to write to him to- 
morrow or next day. His kind interposition in my behalf I have already 
experienced, as a gentleman waited on me the other day, on the part of 
Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas, by way of subscription for two copies 
of my next edition. 

The word you object to in the mention I have made of my glorious 
countryman and your immortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from Thom- 
son ; but it does not strike me as an improper epithet. I distrusted my 
own judgment on your finding fault with it, and applied for the opinion of 
some of the literati here, who honour me with their critical strictures, and 
they all allow it to be proper. The song }ou ask 1 cannot recollect, and 1 
have not a copy of it. 1 have not composed anything on the great 
Wallace, except what you have seen in print: and the inclosed, which I 
will print in this edition. ^ You will see I have mentioned some others of 
the name. When I composed my "Vision" long ago, I had attempted a 
description of Kyle, of which the additional stanzas are a part, as it 
originally stood. My heart glows with a wish to be able to do justice to 
the merits of the " saviour of his country,'" which sooner or later 1 shall at 
least attempt. 

You are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with my prosperity as a poet: 
alas! Madam, 1 know myself and the world too well. I do not mean 
any airs of affected modesty : I am willing to believe that my abilities 
deserve some notice ; but in a most enlightened, informed age and nation, 
when poetry is and has been the study of men of the first natural genius, 
aided with all the powers of polite learning, polite books, and polite com- 
pany — to be dragged forth to the full glare of learned and polite observa- 
tion, with all my imperfections of awkward rusticity and crude unpolished 




1 Stanzas in the "Vision," beginning " By stately tower or palace fair," and ending i 
first Duan. Burns afterwards rejected several of the new stanzas before sending the book I 
Those omitted were chiefly panegyrics on country gentlefolk who had been kind to him. 



ith the 
) press. 




^g 



^ 324 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



ideas on my head — I assure you, Madam, I do not dissemble when I tell 
you I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of a poet in my obscure 
situation, without any of those advantages which are reckoned necessary 
for that character, at least at this time of day, has raised a partial tide of 
public notice which has borne me to a height, where 1 am absolutely, 
feeling certain my abilities are inadequate to support me ; and too 
surely do I see that time wlien the same tide will leave me, and recede, 
perhaps, as far below the mark of truth. I do not say this in the ridiculous 
affectation of self-abasement and modesty. 1 have studied myself, and 
know what ground I occupy ; and, however a friend or the world may 
differ from me in that particular, I stand for my own opinion, in silent 
resolve, with all the tenaciousness of property. I'mention this to you once 
for all to disburthen my mind, and 1 do not wish to hear or say more 
about it. But, 

" When proud fortune's ebbing tide recedes," 

you will bear me witness, that when my bubble of fame was at the highest, 
1 stood unintoxicated, with the inebriating cup in my hand, looking for- 
ward with rueful resolve to the hastening time, when the blow of Calumny 
should dash it to the ground, with all the eagerness of vengeful triumph. 

Your patronizing me and interesting yourself in my fame and character 
as a poet, I rejoice in ; it exalts me in my own idea ; and whether you can 
or caimot aid me in my subscription is a trifle. Has a paltry subscription- 
bill any charms to the heart of a bard, compared with the patronage of the 
descendant of the immortal Wallace.^ — R. B. 



No. XXXIX. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

3jj{_ Edinburgh, Jafiuary [16//;.^], 1787. 

Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me extracts of letters she 
has had from you. where you do the rustic bard the honour of noticing him 
and his works. Those who have felt the anxieties and solicitudes of 
authorship, can only know what pleasure it gives to be noticed in such a 
manner, by judges of the first character. Your criticisms. Sir, I receive 
with reverence ; only I am sorry they mostly came too late : a peccant 
passage or two that I would certainly have altered, were gone to the 
press. 

The hope to be admired for ages is, in by far the greater part of those 
even who were auth.ors of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my part, 
my first ambition was, and still my strongest wish is, to please my com- 
peers, the rustic inmates of the hamlet, while ever-changing language and 
manners shall allow me to be relished and understood. I am very willing 
to admit that I have some poetical abilities; and as few, if any. writers, 
either nioral or poetical, are intimately acquainted with the classes of 
mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, I may have seen men and 
manners in a different phasis from what is common, which may assist 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



originality of thought. Still 1 know very well the novelty of my rharactei 
has by far the greatest share in the learned and polite notice 1 have lately 
had; and in a language where Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, 
ar.d Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear ; wliere Thomson and Beattie 
have painted the landscape, and Lyttelton and Collins describ'^d the heart, 
I am not vain enough to hope for distinguished poetic fame.' — R. B. 

No. XL. 
TO THE REV. G. LAWRIE. 

NEWMILLS, NEAR KILMARNOCK. 

[Mr. Lawrie had written to Burns, urging him to visit Blacklock, the lilind 
poet, and added a tew kindly words of warning as to the temptations of the new 
life on which the Poet had entered.] 

Reverend and dear Sir, Edinburgh, /-V/^rz/rtO' 5//^ 17S7. 

When 1 look at the date of your kind letter, my heart reproaches 
me severely with ingratitude in neglecting so long to answer it. 1 will not 
trouble )'ou with any account by way of apology, of my hurried life and 
distracted attention •' do me the justice to believe ihat my delay b\- no 
means proceeded from want of respect. I feel, and ever shall feel for you, 
the mingled sentiments of esteem for a friend and reverence for a father. 

I thank you. Sir, with all my soul for your friendly hints, though I do 
not need them so much as my friends are apt to imagine. You are dazzled 
witli newspaper accounts and distant reports ; but in reality, I have no 
great temptation to be intoxicated with the cup of prosperity. Novelty 
may attract the attention of mankind awhile: to it 1 owe my present 
eclat ; but I see the time not far distant when the popular tide which has 
borne me to a height of which I am, perhaps, unworthy, shall recede with 
silent celerity, and leave me a barren waste of sand, to descend at my 
leisure to my former station. I do not say this in the affectation of 
modesty ; 1 see the consequence is unavoidable, and am prepared for it. 
I had been at a good deal of pains to form a just, impartial estimate of 
my intellectual powers before I came here ; I have not added, since I 
came to Edinburgh, anything to the account; and I trust I shall take 
every atom of it back to my shades, the coverts of my unnoticed early 
years. 

In Dr. Blacklock, whom I see very often, I have found what 1 would 
have expected in our friend, a c/ear head and an excellent heart. 

' In his reply to this letter dated Jan. i'.srd, 1787, Dr. Moore says: — " If I may judge of the 
author's disposition from his works, with all the other good qualities of a poet, he has not the 
irritable temper ascribed to that race of men by one of their own number, whom you have the 
happiness to resemble in ease and curious felicity of expression. Indeed the poetical beauties, 
however original and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are not all I admire in your works: the 
love of your native country, that feeling sensibility to all the objects of humanity, and the inde- 
pendent spirit which breathes through the whole, give me a most favourable impression of the 
Poet, and have made mc often regret that I did not see the poems, the certain effect of which 
would have been my seeing the author, last summer, when I was longer in Scotland than I have 
been for many years.' 



T=\- 





326 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




By far the most agreeable hours I spend in Edinburgh must be placed 
to the account of Miss Lawrie and her pianoforte. I cannot help re- 
peating to you and Mrs. Lawrie a compliment that Mr. Mackenzie, the 
celebrated " Man of Feeling," paid to Miss Lawrie the other night, at the 
concert. I had come in at the interlude, and sat down by him till 1 saw 
Miss Lawrie in a seat not very distant, and went up to pay my respects to 
her. On my return to Mr. Mackenzie, he asked me who she was ; I told 
him 'twas the daughter of a reverend friend of mine in the west country. 
He returned, there was something very striking, to his idea, in her appear- 
ance. On my desiring to know what it was, he was pleased to say " She 
has a great deal of the elegance of a well-bred lady about her, with all the 
sweet simplicity of a country girl." 

My compliments to all the happy inmates of St. Margaret's. — R. B. 



No. XLL 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Sir, Edinburgh, February i^th, 1787. 

Pardor. my seeming neglect in delaying so long to acknowledge 
the honour you have done me, in your kind notice of me, January 23rd. 
Not many months ago I knew no other employment than following the 
plough, nor could boast anything higher than a distant acquaintance with 
a country gentleman. Mere greatness never embarrasses me : I have 
nothing to ask from the great, and I do not fear their judgment ; but 
genius, polished by learning, and at its proper point of elevation in the 
eye of the world, this of late I frequently meet with, and tremble at its 
approach. I scorn the affectation of seeming modesty to cover self- 
conceit. That I have some merit I do not deny ; but I see with frequent 
wringings of heart, that the novelty of my character, and the honest 
national prejudice of my countrymen, have borne me to a height altogether 
untenable to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss Williams has done me, please. Sir, return her in 
my name my most grateful thanks. I have more than once thought of 
pa3ing her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the idea in hopeless de- 
spondency. I had never before heard of her : but the other day I got 
her Poems, which for several reasons, some belonging to the head, and 
others the offspring of the heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have 
little pretensions to critic lore ; there are, I think, two characteristic 
features in her poetry — the unfettered wild flight of native genius, and 
the querulous, sombre tenderness of " time-settled sorrow." 

I only know what pleases me, often without being able to tell whv.^ 

R. B. 

' Dr. Moore, writing on 28th February, says: — "You are a great favourite in my family, 
and this is a higher compliment than perhaps you are aware of. It includes almost all the profes- 
sions, and of course is a proof that your writings are adapted to various tastes and situations. My 
youngest son who is at Winchester School, writes to me that he is translating some stanzas of your 
' Hallowe'en' into Latin verse, for the benefit of his comrades." 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. XLII. 
TO JOHN BALLANTINE, Esq. 

[The picture from which Beugo engraved the portrait to which the Poet alludes, 
was painted by Alexander Nasmyth — the work in each case being done gratu- 
itously. The engraving has a more melancholy air than the picture, and is of a 
swarthier hue : this change was made by the engraver, who caused the Poet to sit 
to him, and hnished the copper from his face, in preference to working from the 
picture.] 

Mv Honoured Friend, Edinburgh, j^tV-r^/.rrj 24;-//, 1787. 

I will soon be with you now, in guid black prent ; — in a week or 
ten days at farthest. I am obliged, against my own wish, to print sub- 
scribers' names ; so if any of my Ayr friends have subscription bills, they 
must be sent into Creech directly. I am getting my phiz done by an 
eminent engraver, and if it can be ready in time, 1 will appear in my book, 
looking like all o'Ocyftx fools to my title-page. — R. B. 




TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

My Lord, Edinburgh, 1787. 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your lordship, which I was told 
was to be got in town ; but I am truly sorry to see that a blundering 
painter has spoiled a "human face divine." The inclosed stanzas I 
intended to have written below a picture or profile of your lordship, could 
I have been so happy as to procure one with anything of a likeness. 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted to have something like a 
material object for m)- gratitude ; I wanted to have it in my power to say 
to a friend, there is my noble patron, my generous benefactor. Allow me, 
my lord, to publish these verses. I conjure your lordship, by the honest 
throe of gratitude, by the generous wish of benevolence, by all the powers 
and feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, do not deny me this 
petition. 1 owe much to your lordship ; and, what has not in some other 
instances always been the case with me, the weight of the obligation is a 
])leasing load. I trust I have a heart as independent as your lordship's, 
than which I can say nothing more ; and I would not be beholden to 
favours that would crucify my feelings. Your dignified character in life, 
and manner of supporting that character, are flattering to my pride ; and 
1 would be jealous of the purity of my grateful attachment, where I was 
under the patronage of one of the much favoured sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, particularly when they 
were names dear to fame, and illustrious in their country ; allow me, then, 
my lord, if you think the verses have intrinsic merit, to tell the world how 
much I have the honour to be. 

Your lordship's highly indebted. 

And ever grateful humble Servant, 

R. B 




-tU 




328 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. XLIV. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

[The Earl of Buchan had advised Burns to seek inspiration for his muse in a 
pilgrimage to the chief battle-fields of Scotland, iti the hope, it was suspected, that 
Ancruiu Moor and his own family might be duly celebrated.] 

My Lord, 

Tlie honour your lordship has done me, by your notice and advice 
in yours of the ist instant, I shall ever gratefully remember : — 

" Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it most." 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of my heart, when you advise 
me to fire my muse at Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I wish for 
nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgrimage through my native 
country ; to sit and muse on those once hard-contended fields, where 
Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne through broken ranks to 
victory and fame ; and, catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of these enthusiastic reveries, 
a long-visaged, dry, moral-looking phantom strides across luy imagina- 
tion, and pronounces these emphatic words : — 

•' I, Wisdom, dwell with Prudence. Friend, I do not come to open the 
ill-closed wounds of your follies and misfortunes, merely to give you pain : 
I wish through these wounds to imprint a lasting lesson on your heart. I 
will not mention how many of my salutary advices you have despised : I 
have given you line upon line and precept upon precept ; and while I was 
chalking out to you the straight way to wealth and character, with 
audacious effrontery you have zigzagged across the path, contemning me 
to my face : you know the consequences. It is not yet three months since 
home was so hot for you that \ou were on the wing for the western shore 
of the Atlantic, not to make a fortune, but to hide your misfortune. 

"Now that your dear-loved Scotia puts it in your power to return to the 
situation of your forefathers, will you follow these will-o'-wisp meteors of 
fancy and whim till they bring you once more to the brink of ruin ? I 
grant that the utmost ground you can occupy is but half a step from the 
veriest poverty; but still it is half a step from it. If all that I can urge be 
ineiTectual, let her who seldom calls to you in vain, let the call of Pride 
prevail with you. You know how you feel at the 'iron gripe of ruthless 
oppression : you know how you bear the galling sneer of contumelious 
greatness. I hold you out the conveniences, the comforts of life, inde- 
pendence, and character, on the one hand ; I tender you civility, depend- 
ence, and wretchedness, on the other. I will not insult your understanding 
by bidding you make a choice." 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must return to my humble station, 
and woo my rustic muse in mv wonted way at the plough-tail. Still, my 
'ord, while the drops of life warm my heart, gratitude to that dear-loved 
country in which I boast my birth, and gratitude to those her distinguished 





THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 329 

sons who have honoured me so much with their patronage and approba- 
tion, shall, while stealing through my humble shades, ever distend my 
bosom, and at times, as now, draw forth the swelling tear. — R. B. 



TO MR. JAME.S CANDLISH.i 

Edinburgh, March list, 1787. 

My ever dear old Acquaintance, 

I was equally surprised and pleased at your letter, though I dare 
say you will think by my delaying so long to write to you that I am so 
drowned in the intoxication of good fortune as to be indiiferent to old, and 
once dear connexions. The truth is, I was determined to write a good 
letter, full of argument, amplification, erudition, and, as Bayes says, all 
that. I thought of it, and thought of it, and, by my soul, I could' not ; 
and, lest you should mistake the cause of my silence, I just sit down to 
tell you so. Don't give yourself credit, though, that the strength of }our 
logic scares me : the truth is, I never mean to meet you on that ground at 
all. You have shown me one thing which was to be demonstrated: that 
strong pride of reasoning, with a little affectation of singularity, may mis- 
lead the best of hearts. I likewise, since you and I were first acquainted, 
in the pride of despising old women's stories, ventured in " the daring path 
Spinosa trod ; " but experience of the weakness, not the strength of 
human powers, made me glad to grasp at revealed religion. 

I am still, in the Apostle Paul's phrase, "The old man with his deeds," 
as when we were sporting about the " Lady Thorn." I shall be four 
weeks here yet at least ; and so I shall expect to hear from you ; welcome 
sense, welcome nonsense. 

I am, with the warmest sincerity, 

R. B. 

No. XLVI. 

TO . 

[One of the first things Burns did on his arrival in Edinburgh was, according to 
Allan Cunningham, to seek out the lowly grave of Fergusson, when kneeling down 
he kissed the sod. In February, 1787, he wrote to the managers of the Kirk and 
Kirkyard Funds of Canongate, offering to " lay a simple stone over his (Fer- 
gusson's) revered ashes, to remain an unalienable property to his deathless fame," 
— an offer which was cordially accepted.] 

My dear Sir, Edinburgh, .1/a>-6-/i, 1787. 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a selfish, ungrateful fellow, 
having received so many repeated instances of kindness from you, and 
yet never putting pen to paper to say thank you : but if you knew what a 
devil of a life my conscience has led me on that account, your good heart 

' Father of the Rev. Dr. Candlish, of Edinburgh. 



^& 



^= 





Jt 



^ 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



would think yourself too much avenged. By the by there is nothing in 
the whole frame of man which seems to be so unaccountable as that thing 
called conscience. Had the troublesome yelping cur powers efficient to 
prevent a mischief, he might be of use ; but at the beginning of the 
business, Jiis feeble efforts are to the workings of passion as the infant 
frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouded fervour of the rising sun : 
and no sooner are the tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, than, 
amidst the bitter native consequences of folly, in the very vortex of our 
horrors, up starts conscience, and harrows us with the feelings of t^p 
damned. 

The inscription on the stone is as follows : — 

"HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON, POET, 

"Born, September 5th, 1751 — Died, i6th September, 1774. 

" No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 

' No storied urn nor animated bust; ' 
This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 

To pour her sorrows o'er her poet's dust." 

On the other side of the stone is as follows : — 

" By special grant of the Managers to Robert Burns, who erected this stone, this 
iiurial place is to remain tor ever sacred to the memory of Robert Fergusson." 



No. XLVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Madam Edinburgh, March iid, 17S7. 

I read your letter with watery eyes. A little, very little while ago, 1 
had scarce a friend but the stubborn pride of my own bosom ; now I am 
distinguished, patronized, befriended by you. Your friendly advices — I 
will not give them the cold name of criticisms — I receive with reverence. 
1 have made some small alterations in what 1 before had printed. I have 
the advice of some very judicious friends among the literati here, but with 
them I sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege of thinking for 
m}self. The noble Earl of Glencairn, to whom 1 owe more than to any 
man, does me the honour of giving me his strictures : his hints, with 
respect to impropriety or indelicacy, I follow im.plicitly. 

You kindly interest yourself in my future views and prospects ; there 1 
can give you no light. It is all 

" Dark as was Chaos ere the infant sun 
Was roll'd together, or had tried his beams 
.^thwart the gloom profound." 

The appellation of a Scottish bard, is by far my highest pride ; to con- 
tinue to deserve it is my most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and 
Scottish story are the themes I could wish to sing. I have no dearer aim 
than to have it in my power, unplagued with the routine of business, for 
which heaven knows I am unfit enough, to make leisurely pilgrimages 
through Caledonia ; to sit on the fields of her battles : to wander on the 



T=\- 





THE LET VERS OF BURNS. 



romantic banks of her rivers : and to muse by the stately towers or 
venerable ruins, once the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : I have dallied long enough' with 
life ; 'tis time to be in earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for : and some other bosom ties perhaps equally tender. Where the 
individual only suffers by the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, 
indolence, or folly, he may be excusable ; nay, shining abilities, and some 
of the nobler virtues, ma}- half sanctify a heedless character ; but where 
God and nature have entrusted the welfare of others to his care ; where 
the trust is sacred, and the ties are dear, that man must be far gone in 
selfishness, or strangely lost to reflection, whom these connexions will not 
rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and tliree hundred pounds by my 
authorship ; ^ with that sum I intend, so far as I may be said to have any 
intention, to return to my old acquaintance, the plough, and, if I can 
meet with a lease by which I can live, to commence farmer. I do not 
intend to give up poetry ; being bred to labour, secures me independence, 
and the muses are my chief, sometimes have been my only enjoyment. 
If my practice second my resolution, I shall have principally at heart the 
serious business of life ; but while following my plough, or building up my 
shocks. I shall cast a leisure glance to that dear, that only feature of my 
character, which gave me the notice of my country, and the patronage of 
a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured Madam, I have given you the bard, his situation, and 
his views, native as thev are in his own bosom. — R. B. 




No. XLVIII. 



TO THE SAME. 
iMaDAM. Edinburgh, I'^th April, 1787. 

There is an affectation of gratitude which I dislike. The periods of 
Johnson and the pauses of Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For my pa/t, 
Madam, I trust I have too much pride for servility, and too little prudence 
for selfishness. 1 have this moment broken open your letter, but 

" Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself^ " 

so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches and hunted figures. I 
shall just lay my hand on my heart and say I hope I shall ever have the 
truest, the warmest, sense of your goodness. 

1 come abroad, in print, for certain on Wednesday. Your orders I 
shall punctually attend to : only by the way. I must tell you that I was 
paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss Williams'' copies, through tlie 

' For the new edition of the Poems, which appeared on 21st April, 1787, there were 1,500 sub- 
scribers, engaging for 2,800 copies. Burns cleared about ;{;5oo by the whole. 





^ 



332 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



medium of Commissioner Cochrane in this place, but that we can settle 
when I have the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith 1 was just gone to London the morning before I received 
your letter to him.— R. B. 



No. XLIX. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh, ■2^d April, ^■j'i-]. 

I RECEIVED the books, and sent the one you mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. 
I am ill skilled in beating the coverts of imagination for metaphors of 
gratitude. I thank you. Sir, for the honour you have done me; and to 
my latest hour will warmly remember it. To be highly pleased with your 
book is what I have in common with the world ; Ijut to regard these 
volumes as a mark of the author's friendly esteem, is a still more supreme 
gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or a fortnight, and, after a 
few pilgrimages over some of the classic ground of Caledonia, Cowden 
Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, &c., I shr.ll return to my rural shades, 
in all likelihood never more to cjuit them. I have formed many intimacies 
and friendships here, but I am afraid they are all of too tender a con- 
struction to bear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the rich, the 
great, the fashionable, the polite, I have no equivalent to offer ; and I am 
afraid my meteor appearance will by no means entitle me to a settled 
correspondence with any of you, who are the permanent lights of genius 
and literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. If once this tangent 
flight of mine were over, and I were returned to my wonted leisurely 
motion in my old circle, I may probably endeavor to return her poetic 
compliment in kind. — R. B. 




No. L. 

TO MRS. DUNLOr. 

Edinburgh, -y^th April, 1787. 

Your criticisms. Madam, I understand very well, and could 

have wished to have pleased you better. You are right in your guess that 
I am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, much my superiors, have so 
flattered those who possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth and 
power, that I am determined to flatter no created being, either in prose or 
verse. 

I set as little by princes, lords, clergy, critics. &c., as all these respective 
gentry do by my hardship. I know what I may expect from the world. 
' y and by — illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemptuous neglect. 

■ Adam Smith, author of " Wealth of Nations." 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 333 

I am happy, Madam, that some of my own favourite pieces are dis- 
tinguished by your particular approbation. For my " Dream," which has 
unfortunately incurred your loyal displeasure, I hope in four weeks, or 
less, to have the honour of appearing, at Dunlop, in its defence in person. 

R. B. 



No. LI. 
TO THE REV. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Lawn Mark-et, Edinburgh, T,rd May, 1787. 

Reverend and much respected Sir, 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but could not go without 
troubling you with half a line, sincerely to thank you for the kindness, 
patronage, and friendship you have shown me. I often felt the embarrass- 
ment of my singular situation ; drawn forth from the veriest shades of 
life to the glare of remark; and honoured by the notice of those illus- 
trious names of my country whose works, while they are applauded to the 
end of time, will ever instruct and mend the heart. However the meteor- 
like novelty of my appearance in the world might attract notice, and 
honour me with the acquaintance of the permanent lights of genius and 
literature, those who are truly benefactors of the immortal nature of man. 
I knew very well that my utmost merit was far unequal to the task of 
preserving that character when once the novelty was over ; I have made 
up my mind that abuse, or almost even neglect, will not surprise me in my 
quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's work^ for me, done on 
Indian paper, as a trifling but sincere testimony with what heart-warm 
gratitude I am, &c.'- — R. B. 

1 The portrait of the Poet after Nasmyth. 

- A few sentences of Blair's reply may be quoted, partly as testimony to Burns' behaviour in the 
capital, and partly as an example of the pretentious patronage of common-place men which he had 
to endure : — " Your situation, as you say, was indeed very singular; and in being brought out, all 
at once, from the shades of deepest privacy to so great a share of public notice and observation, 
you had tn stand a ■;o\ere trial. I am happy that you have stood it so well : and, as far I have known 
or heard, thou-h in the midst of many temptations, without reproach to your character and beha- 
viour. You arc now, I jiresume, to retire to a more private walk of life; and I trust will conduct 
yourself there wuh industry, prudence and honour. You have laid the foundation for just public 
esteem. In the mid.-,t of those employments which your situation will render proper, you will not 
I hope neglect to promote that esteem, by cultivating your genius, and attending to such produc- 
tions of it as may raise your character still higher. At the same time, be not in too great a haste to 
come forward. Take time and leisure to improve and mature your talents. For on any second 
production you give the world, your fate, as a poet, will very much depend. There is no doubt a 
gloss of novelty, which time wears off. As you very properly hint yourself, you are not to be 
surprised, if in your rural retreat you do not find yourself surrounded with that glare of notice and 
applause which here shone upon you. No man can be a good poet without being somewhat of a 
philosopher. He must lay his account, that any one, who exposes himself to public observation, 
will occasionally meet with the attacks of illiberal censure, which it is always best to overlook and 
despise. He will be inclined sometimes to court retreat, and to disappear from public view. He 
will not afiect to shine alw.ays; that he may at proper seasons come forth with more advantage 
and energy. He will not think himself neglected if he be not alw.ays praised." 





334 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 




No. LII. 
TO MR. W. NICOL, 

MASTER OF THE HIGH SCHOOI,, EDIXBFRGH. 
Kind, honest-hearted Willie, Carlisle, June isi, 17S7. 

Vm sitten down here, after seven and forty miles ridin\ e'en as for- 
jesket and forniaw'd as a forfoughten cock, to gie you some notion o' my 
land lowperlike stravaguin sin the sorrowfu' hour that I sheuk hands and 
parted with auld Reekie. 

M}- auld, ga'd gleyde o' a meere has huchyall'd up hill and down brae, 
in Scotland and England, as teugh and birnie as a vera devil wi' me.^ It's 
true, she's as poor's a sang-maker and as hard's a kirk, and tipper-taipers 
when she taks the gate, first like a lady's gentlewoman in a minuwae, or a 
hen on a het girdle ; but she's a yauld, poutherie Girran for a' that, 
and has a stomack like Willie Stalker's meere that wad hae digeested 
tumbler-wheels, for she'll whip me aff her five stimparts o' the best aits at 
a down-sittin and ne'er fash her thumb. When ance her ringbanes and 
spavies, her crucks and cramps, are fairly soupl'd, she beets to, beets to. 
and ay the hindmost hour the tightest. I could wager her price to a 
thretty pennies, that for twa or three wooks ridin at fifty mile a day, the 
deil-sticket a five gallopers acqueesh Clyde and Whithorn could cast 
saut on her tail. 

I hae dander'd owre a' the kintra frae Dumbar to Selcraig, and hae for- 
gathered wi' mony a guid fallow, and monie a weelfar'd hizzie. I met wi" 
twa dink quines in particlar, ane o' them a sonsie, fine, fodgel lass, baith 
braw and bonnie ; the tither was a clean-shankit, straught. tight, weel- 
far'd winch, as blythe's a lintwhite on a flowerie thorn, and as sweet and 
modest's a new blawn plumrose in a hazle shaw. They were baith bred 
to mainers by the beuk, and onie ane o' them had as muckle smeddum 
and rumblgumtion as the half o' some presbytries that you and I baith 
ken. They play'd me sik a deevil o' a shavie that I daur say if my harigals 
were turn'd out, ye wad see twa nicks i' the heart o' me like the mark o' a 
kail-whittle in a castock. 

I was gaun to write you a lang pystle, but, Gude forgie me, 1 gat myself 
sae noutouriously bitchify'd the day after kail-time, that I can hardly 
stoiter but and ben. 

My best respecks to the guidwife and a' our common friens, especiall 
.Mr. and Mrs. Cruikshank, and the honest guidman o' Jock's Lodge. 

I'll be in Dumfries the morn gif the beast be to the fore, and the branks 
bide hale. 

Gude be wi' vuu, Willie I Amen ! 

R. B. 

^ Tins mare was the Poet s favourite, Jenny GeJdes. 






THE LETTERS OF' BURNS. 33S 



No. LIII. 

TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

linlithgow. 

My ever dear Sir, Mauchline, 7««.' hM, 1787. 

I date this from Alauchline, where I arrived on Friday even last. 

If anything had been wanting to disgust me completely at Armour's family, 

their mean, servile compliance would have done it. 

Gfve me a spirit like my favourite hero, Milton's Satan : — 

" Hail, horrors! hail, 
Infernal world! and thou profoundest Hell, 
Receive thy new possessor! he who brings 
A mind not to be changed by place or tiiiic' " 

I cannot settle to my mind. Farming, the only thing of which I know 
anything, and heaven above knows but little do I understand of that, I 
cannot, dare not risk on farms as they are. If I do not fix, I will go tor 
Jamaica. Should I stay in an unsettled state at home, I would only 
dissipate my little fortune, and ruin what I intend shall compensate my 
little ones for the stigma I have brought on their names. — R. B. 



No LIV. 
TO WILIJAM NICOL, ESQ. 

My dear Friend, Mauchune, 7««^ 18M, 1787. 

I am now arrived safe in my native country, after a very agreeable 
jaunt, and have the pleasure to find all my friends well. I breakfasted 
with your gray-headed, reverend friend, Mr. Smith ; and was highly 
pleased both with the cordial welcome he gave me, and his most excellent 
appearance and sterling good sense. 

I have been with Mr. Miller at Dalswinlon, and am to meet him again 
in August. From my view of the lands, and his reception of my bard- 
ship, my hopes in that business are rather mended ; but still they are 
hut slender. 

I am quite charmed with Dumfries folks — Mr. Burnside, the clergy- 
man, in particular, is a man whom I shall ever gratefully remember; 
and his wife, Gude forgie me ! I had almost broke the tenth command- 
ment on her account. Simplicity, elegance, good sense, sweetness of 
disposition, good humour, kind hospitality, are the constituents of her 
manner and heart: in short — but if I say one word more about her, I 
shall be directly in love with her. 

I never, my friend, thought mankind very capable of anything generous ; 
but the stateliness of the patricians in Edinburgh, and the servility of my 
plebeian brethren (who perhaps formerly eyed me askance) since I re- 
turned home, have nearly put me out of conceit altogether with my 
s[)ecies. I have bought a' pocket Milton, which I carry perpetually about 
with me, in order to study the sentiments — the dauntless magnanimity 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



the intrepid, unyielding independence, tlie desperate daring, and noble 
defiance of hardship, in that great personage, Satan. 'Tis true, I have 
just now a little cash ; but I am afraid the star that hitherto has shed its 
malignant, purpose-blasting rays full in my zenith, that noxious planet so 
baneful in its influences to the rhyming tribe, 1 much dread it is not \et 
beneath my horizon. Misfortune dodges the path of human life ; the poetic 
mind linds itself miserably deranged in, and unfit for the walks of business ; 
add to all, that thoughtless follies and hare-brained whims, like so many 
igncs fatni, eternally diverging from the right line of sober discretion, 
sparkle with step-bewitching blaze in the idly-gazing eyes of the poor heed- 
less Bard, till, pop, " he falls like Lucifer, never to hope again." God grant 
this may be an unreal picture with respect to me ! but should it not, I 
have very little dependence on mankind. I will close my letter with this 
tribute my heart bids me pay you — the many ties of acquaintance and 
friendship which I have, or think I have in life, I have felt along the lines, 
and, damn them, they are almost all of them of .such frail contexture, that 
I am sure they would not stand the breath of the least adverse breeze of 
fortune; but from you, my ever dear Sir, I look with confidence for the 
Apostolic love that shall wait on me "through good report and bad 
report" — the love which Solomon emphatically says " is strong as death." 
My compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and all the circle of our common 
friends. 

P.S. I shall be in Edinburgh about the latter end of July. — R. B. 

No. LV. 
TO ROBERT AINSLIE, ESQ. 

[Burns was now on his first tour in the Highlands. His unsettled state, dissat- 
isfaction with his present circumstances, and anxiety for the future, gave a some- 
what morose, distempered turn to his thoughts, except when care was drowned in 
wild jollity.] 

My dear Sir, Arkachar, June iWi, 1787. 

I write this on my tour through a country where savage streams tumble 
over savage mountains, thinly overspread with savage flocks, which 
starvingly support as savage inhabitants. My last stage was Inverary 
— to-niorrow night's stage Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have answered 
your kind letter, but you know I am a man of many sins. — R. B. 

No. LVI. 
TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

LINLITHCOW. 

My dear Friend. >«^ ^°t''^ 1787- 

On our return, at a Highland gentleman's hospitable mansion, we 
fell in with a merry party, and danced till the ladies left us, at three in the 
morning. Our dancing was none of the French or English insipid formal 





ll-C THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 337 HT 

movements ; the ladies sung Scotch songs like angels, at intervals ; then we 
flew at " Bab at the Bowster," " Tullochgorum,'" " Loch Erroch Side," ' &c., 
like midges sporting in the mottie sun, or craws prognosticating a storm 
in a hairst day. Wiien the dear lasses left us, we ranged round the bowl 
till the good-fellow hour of six ; except a few minutes that we went out to 
pay our devotions to the glorious lamp of day peering over the towering top 
of Benlomond. We all kneeled ; our worthy landlord's son held the bowl ; 
each man a full glass in his hand ; and I. as priest, repeated some rhym- 
ing nonsense, like Thomas-a-Rhymefs prophecies I suppose. After a 
small refreshment of the gifts of Somnus, we proceeded to spend the day 
on Lochlomond, and reached Dumbarton in the evening. We dined at 
another good fellow's house, and consequently, pushed the bottle ; when 
we went out to mount our horses, we found ourselves " No vera fou but 
gaylie yet '" My two friends and I rode soberly down the Loch side, till 
by canie a Higlilandman at the gallop, on a tolerably good horse, but 
which had never known the ornaments of iron or leather. We scorned to 
be out-galloped by a Highlandman, so off we started, whip and spur. My 
companions, though seemingly gaily mounted, fell sadly astern ; but my 
old mare, Jenny Geddes, one of the Rosinante family, strained past 
the Highlandman in spite of all his efforts with the hair halter: just as I 
was passing him, Donald wheeled his horse, as if to cross before me to 
mar mv progress, when down came his horse, and threw his rider's breek- 
less a — e in a dipt edge; and down came Jenny Geddes over all, and my 
hardship between her and the Highlandman''s horse. Jenny Geddes trode 
o\er me with such cautious reverence, that matters were not so bad as 
might well have been expected ; so I came off with a few cuts and 
bruises, and a thorough resolution to be a pattern of sobriety for the 
future. 

I have yet fixed on nothing with respect to the serious business of life. 
I am, just as usual, a rhyming, mason-making, raking, aimless, idle fellow. 
However, I shall somewhere have a farm soon. I was going to say, a 
wife too ; but that must never be my blessed lot. I am but a younger son 
of the house of Parnassus, and, like other vounger sons of great families, 
I may intrigue, if I choose to run all risks, but must not marry. 

I am afraid I have almost ruined one source, the principal one indeed, of 
m\- former happiness ; that eternal propensity I alwavs had to fall in love. 
My heart no more glows with feverish rapture. I have no paradisiacal 
evening interviews, stolen from the restless cares and prying inhabitants 
of this weary world. I have only * * * *. This last is one of your distant 
acquaintances, has a fine figure, and elegant manners; and in "the train of 
some great folks whom you know, has seen the politest quarters of Europe. 
I do like her a good deal : but what piques me is her conduct at the com- 
mencement of our acquaintance. I frequently visited her when I was in 

and after passing regularly the intermediate degrees between the distant 
formal bow and the familiar grasp round the waist, I ventured, in my care- 
less way, to talk of friendship in rather ambiguous terms; and after her 



^^ 





THE LETTERS OE BURXS. 



return to , I wrote to her in the same style. JMiss, construing my words 

farther I suijpose than even I intended, flew off in a tangent of female 
dignity and reserve, like a mounting lark in an April morning ; and wrote 
me an answer which measured me out very completely what an immense 
way I had to travel before I could reach the climate of her favour. But I 
am an old hawk at the sport, and wrote her such a cool, deliberate, prudent 
reply, as brought my bird tVom her aerial towerings, pop, down at my foot, 
like Corporal Trim's hat. 

As for the rest of my acts, and my wars, and all my wise sayings, and 
why my mare was called Jenny Geddes, they shall I:ie recorded in a few 
weeks hence at Linlithgow, in the chronicles of your memory, by R. B. 



No. LVII. 

TO MR. JOHN RICHMOND. 

My dear RiCHMOWIJ, Mossgiel, July yth, 1787. 

I am all impatience to hear of your fate since the old confounder of 
right and wrong has turned you out of place, by his journey to answer his 
indictment at the bar of the other world. He will find the practice of the 
court so different from the practice in which he has for so many years 
been thoroughly hackneyed, that his friends, if he had any connexions 
truly of that kind, which I rather doubt, may well tremble for his sake. 
His chicane, his left-handed wisdom, which stood so firmly by him. to 
such good purpose, here, like other accomplices in robbery and plunder, 
will, now the piratical business is blown, in all probability turn king's 
evidence, and then the devil's bagpiper will touch him off " Bundle 
and go ! " 

If he has left you any legacy, I beg your pardon ftv' all this; if not, 1 
know you will swear to every word I said about him. 

I have lately been rambling over by Dumbarton and Inverary, and 
running a drunken race on the side of Loch Lomond with a wild High- 
landman : his horse, which had never known the ornaments of iron or 
leather, zigzagged across before my old spavin'd hunter, whose name is 
Jenny Geddes, and down came the Highlandman, horse and all, and 
down came Jenny and my bardship ; so I have got such a skinful of 
bruises and wounds, that I shall Ix- at least four weeks before I dare 
venture on my journey to Edinburgh. 

Not one new thing under the sun has happened in Mauchline since you 
left it. I hope this will find you as comfortably situated as formerly, or. 
if heaven pleases, more so ; but, at all events, I trust you will let me "know 
of course how matters stand with you, well or ill. 'Tis but poor consola- 
tion to tell the world Vv'hen matters go wrong : but you know very well 
your connexion and mine stand on a different footing. 

I am ever, my dear Friend, yours, 

R. i>. 




Ill: 



THE LET'IIiRS OF BURNS. 



¥, 



^ 



339 



No. LVIII. 

TO DR. .MODRK.' 

c^I|.^ Mauchline, August 2ci, 1787. 

For some months past I have been rambling over the countiy. but I 
am now confined with some lingering complaints, originating, as I take it, 
in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little in this miserable fog of ennui, 
I have taken a whim to give you a history of myself. My name has made 
some little noise in this country ; you have done me the honour to interest 
yourself very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faithful account of what 
character of a man 1 am, and how I came by that character, may perhaps 
amuse you in an idle moment. I will give you an honest narrative, though 
I know it will be often at my own expense : for 1 assure you, Sir, I have, 
like Solomon, whose character, excepting in the trifling affair of wisdom, 
I sometimes think I resemble, — 1 have, I say, like him turned my eyes to 
behold madness and folly, and like him, too, frecjuently shaken hands with 
their intoxicating friendship. After you have perused these pages, should 
\ou think them trifling and impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that 
the poor author wrote them under some twitching qualms of conscience, 
arising from a suspicion that he was doing \yhat he ought not to do ; a 
predicament he has more than once been in before. 

I have not the most distant pretensions to assume that character which 
the pye-coated guardians of escutcheons call a gentleman. When at 
Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted in the Herald's office ; and. look- 
ing through that granary of honours, I there found almost every name in 
the kingdom : but for me, 

" My ancient but ignoble blood 
Has crept thro' scoundrels ever since the flood." 

Gules, purpure, argent, &;c., C]uite disowned me. 

My father was of the north of Scotland, the son of a farmer, and was 
thrown by early misfortunes on the world at large ; where, after many 
years' wanderings and sojournings, he picked up a pretty large quantity of 
observation and experience, to which I am indebted for most of my little 
pretensions to wisdom. I have met with few who understood men, their 
manners and their ways, equal to him ; but stubborn, ungainly integrity, 
and headlong, ungovernable irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances •, 
consequently, I was born a very poor man's son. For the first six or 
seven years of my life, my father was gardener to a worthy gentleman of 
small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had he continued in that 
station, I must have marched off to be one of the little underlings about 
a farmhouse ; but it was his dearest wish and prayer to have it in his 
power to keep his children under his own eye, till they could discern 
between good and evil ; so with the assistance of his generous master, 
my father ventured on a small farm on his estate. At those years, I was 
by no means a favourite with anybody. I was a good deal noted for a 
retentive memory, a stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, and an 



The original copy of this letter transmitted to Dr. Moore 
rs very much from the printed version. 



in the British Museum. It 





s 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



enthusiastic idiot i piety. I say idiot piety, because I was then but a 
child. Though it cost the schoohiiaster some thrashings, I made an 
excellent English scholar ; and by the time I was ten or eleven years ot 
age, I was a critic in substantives, verbs, and particles. In my infant and 
boyish days, too, I owe much to an old woman who resided in the family, 
remarkable for her ignorance, credulity, and superstition. She had, I 
suppose, the largest collection in the country of tales and songs concern- 
ing devils, ghosts, fairies, brownies, witches, warlocks, spunkies, kelpies, 
elf-candles, dead-lights, wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, giants, enchanted 
towers, dragons and other trumpery. This cultivated the latent seeds of 
poetry ; but had so strong an effect on my imagination, that to this hour, 
in my nocturnal rambles, I sometimes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious 
places ; and though nobody can be more sceptical than I am in such 
matters, yet it often takes an effort of philosophy to shake off these idle 
terrors. The earliest composition that I recollect taking pleasure in, was 
" The Vision of Mirza," and a hymn of Addison's beginning, " How are 
thy servants blest, O Lord ! " I particularly remember one half stanza which 
was music to my boyish ear — 

" For though in dreadful whirls we hung 
High on the broken wave — " 

I met with these pieces in Mason's English Collection, one of my school- 
books. The first two books I ever read in private, and which gave me 
more pleasure than any two books I ever read since, were " The Life of 
Hannibal," and the " History of Sir William Wallace." Hannibal gave 
my young ideas such a turn, that I used tc strut in raptures up and clown 
after the recruiting drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall enough to be 
a soldier ; while the story of Wallace poured a Scottish prejudice into 
my veins, vv'hich will boil along there till the flood-gates of life shut in 
eternal rest. 

Polemical divinity about this time was putting the country half mad, 
and L ambitious of shining in conversation parties on Sundays, between 
sermons, at funerals, &c., used a few years afterwards to puzzle Calvinism 
with so much heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue and cry of heresy 
against me, which has not ceased to this hour. 

My vicinit}- to A\r was of sonie advantage to me. My social disposi- 
tion, when not checked by some modifications of spited pride, was like 
our catechism definition of infinitude, without bounds or limits. I formed 
several connexions with other younkeis, who possessed superior advan- 
tages ; the youngling actors who were busy in the rehearsal of parts 
in which they were shortly to appear on the stage of life, where, alas ! 
I was destined to drudge behind the scenes. It is not commonly at 
this green age, that our young gentry have a just sense of the immense 
distance between them and their ragged play-fellows. It take:, a few 
dashes into the world, to give the young great man that proper, decent, 
unnoticing disregard for th^. poor, insignificant, stupid devils, the me- 
chanics and peasantry around him, who were, perhaps, born in the 

' 'diot far idiotic. 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 341 

same village. My young superiors never insulted the clouterly appear- 
ance of my plough-boy carcase, the two extremes of which were often 
exposed to all the inclemencies of all the seasons. They wouli give me 
stray volumes of books ; among them, even then, I could pick up some 
observations, and one, whose heart, I am sure, not even the " Munny 
Begum" scenes have tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting with 
these my young friends and benefactors, as they occasionally went off for 
the East or West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction ; but 1 was soon 
called to more serious evils. My father's generous master died ; the farn) 
proved a ruinous bargain ; and to clench the misfortune, we fell into the 
hands of a factor, who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in my tale 
of " Twa Dogs." My father was advanced in life when he married; 1 
was the eldest of seven children, and he, worn out by early hardships, 
was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was soon irritated, but not easily 
broken. There was a freedom in his lease in two years more, and to 
weather these two years, we retrenched our expenses. We lived very 
poorly : I was a dexterous ploughman for my age ; and the next eldest to 
me was a brother (Gilbert), who could drive the plough very well, and 
help me to thrash the corn. A novel-writer might, perhaps, have viewed 
these scenes with some satisfaction, but so did not 1 ; my indignation yet 
boils at the recollection of the scoundrel factor's insolent threatening 
letters, which used to set us all in tears. 

This kind of life — the cheerless gloom of a hermit, with the unceasing 
moil of a galley slave, brought me to my sixteenth year ; a little before 
which period I first committed the sin of rhyme. You know our country 
custom of coupling a man and woman together as partners in the labours 
of harvest. In my fifteentli autumn, my partner was a bewitching crea- 
ture, a year younger than myself. My scarcity of English denies me the 
power of doing her justice in that language, but you know the Scottish 
idiom: she was a '.* bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass." In short, she, altogether 
unwittingly to herself, initiated me in that delicious passion, which, in 
spite of acid disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and bookworm philos- 
ophy, 1 hold to be the first of human joys, our dearest blessing here 
below ! How she caught the contagion I cannot tell ; you medical 
people talk much of infection from breathing the same air, the touch, 
&c. ; but 1 never expressly said I loved her. Indeed I did not know 
nivself why I liked so much to loiter behind with her, when returning in 
the evening from our labours ; why the tones of her voice made my heart- 
strings thrill like an .Eolian harp ; and particularly why my pulse beat 
such a furious ratan, when I looked and fingered over her little hand to 
pick out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among her other love- 
inspiring qualities, she sung sweetly: and it was her favourite reel to 
which I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in rhyme. I was not so 
presumptuous as to imagine that 1 could make verses like printed ones, 
composed by men who had Greek and Latin ;' but my girl sung a song 
which was said to be composed by a small country laird's son, on one of 
his father's maids, with whom he was in love ; and I saw no reason why 
I might not rhyme as well as he ; for, excepting that he could smear 




342 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



in the moorlands- he had no more 



sheep, and cast peats, his father Hvin 
.icholar-craft than myself 

Thus with nie began love and poetry; which at times have been my 
only, and till within the last twelve months, have been my highest enjoy- 
ment. My father struggled on till he reached the freedom in his lease, 
when he entered on a larger farm, about ten miles farther in the country. 
Tlie nature of the bargain he made was such as to throw a little ready 
money into his hands at the commencement of his lease, otherwise the 
aifair would have been impracticable. For four years we lived comfort- 
ably here, but a difference commencing between him and his landlord as 
to tei-ms. after three years' tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, 
my fatiier was just .saved from the horrors of a jail, 1^' a con.sumption, 
which, after two years' promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him away, 
to where tlie wicked cease from troubling, and where the weary aL'e at 
rest ! 

It is during the time that we lived on this farm, that my little story is 
most eventful. I was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps the most 
ungainly, awkward boy in the parish — no solitaire was less acquainted 
.vith the ways of the world. What 1 know of ancient story was gathered 
from Salmon's and (iuthrie's Geographical Grammars ; and the ideas 1 
had formed of modern manners of literature, and criticism, I got from 
the Spectator. These, with Pope's Works, some Plays of Shakespeare, 
Tull and Dickson on Agriculture, The Pantheon, Locke's Essay on the 
Human Understanding. Stackhouse's History of the Bible, Justice's 
British Gardener's Directory, Boyle's Lectures, Allan Ramsay's Works, 
Taylor's Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin, A Select Collection of 
English Songs, and Herveys Meditations, had formed the whole ot' 
my reading. The collection of songs was my vade vieaini. I pored 
over them, driving my cart, or walking to labour, song by song, verse by 
verse ; carefully noting the true, tender, or sublime, from affectation and 
fustian. I am convinced I owe to this practice much of my critic-craft, 
such as it is. 

In my seventeenth year, to give my manners a brush, I went to a 
country dancing-school. My father had an unaccountable antipathy 
against these meetings, and my going was, what to this moment I repent, 
in opposition to his wishes. My father, as I said before, was subject to 
strong passions ; from that instance of disobedience in me, he took a 
sort of dislike to me, which, I believe, was one cause of the dissipation 
which marked my succeeding years. I say dissipation, comparatively 
with the strictness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presbyterian country 
life ; for though the will-o'-wisp meteors of thoughtless whim were almost 
the sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety and virtue kept me 
for several years afterwards within the line of innocence. The great 
misfortune of my life was to want an aim. I had felt early some 
stirrings of ambition, but they were the blind gropings of Homer's 
Cyclops round the walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation entailed 
on me perpetual labour. The only two openings by which 1 could enter 
the temple of fortune were the gate of niggardly economy, or the path of 





;h£ 



ll£ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 343 



little chicaning bargain-making. The first is so contracted an aperture 
I n'^ver could squeeze myself into it: the last I always hated — there was 
contamination in the very entrance I Thus abandoned of aim or view in 
life, with a strong appetite for sociability, as well from native hilarity as 
from a pride of observation and remark ; a constitutional melancholy or 
h}pochondriasm that made me fly solitude ; add to these incentives to 
social life, my reputation for bookish knowledge, a certain wild logical 
talent, and a strength of thought, something like the rudiments of good 
sense ; and it will not seem surprising that I was generally a welcome 
guest where I \-isited, or any great wonder that always, where two or 
three met together, there was I among them. But far beyond all other 
impulses of my heart, was tin penchant a Vadorable vioitie du genre 
hiiinain. Aly heart was completely tinder, and was eternally lighted up 
by some goddess or other ; and, as in every other warfare in this world, 
my fortune was various ; sometimes I was received with favour, and 
sometimes I was mortified with a repulse. At the plough, scythe, or 
reap-hook, I feared no competitor, and thus I set absolute want at 
defiance ; and as 1 never cared farther for my labours than while I was 
in actual exercise, I spent the evenings in the way after my own heart. 
A country lad seldom carries on a love adventure without an assisting 
confidant I possessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity that rec- 
ommended me as a proper second on these occasions ; and I dare say. 
I felt as much pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves of the 
parish of Tarbolton, as ever did statesman in knowing the intrigues of 
half the courts of Europe. The very goose-feather in my hand seems 
to know instinctively the well-worn path of my imagination, the favourite 
theme of my song ; and is with difficulty restrained from giving you 
a couple of paragraphs on the love adventures of my compeers, the 
humble inmates of the farm-house and cottage : but the grave sons of 
science, ambition, or avarice baptize these things by the name of follies. 
To the sons and daughters of labour and poverty they are matters of 
the most serious nature : to them the ardent hope, the stolen interview, 
the tender farewell, are the greatest and most delicious parts of their 
enjoyment. 

Another circumstance in my life which made some alteration in my 
mind and manners, was, that I spent my nineteenth summer i on a smug- 
gling coast, a good distance from horns, at a noted school, to learn 
mensuration. sur\eying, dialling, &c.. in which I made a pretty good 
progress. But I made a greater progress in the knowledge of mankind. 
The contraband trade was at that time very successful, and it sometimes 
liappened to me to fall in with those who carried it on. Scenes of 
swaggering riot and roaring dissipation were, till this time, new to ine ; 
l)ut I was no enemy to social life. Here, though I learnt to fill my glass, 
and to mix without fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on with a high 
hand with my geometry, till the sun entered Virgo, a month which is 
always a carnival in my bosom, when a charming fillette. who li\ed next 
door to the school, overset my trigonometry, and set me off at a tangent 



Seventeenth .Summer in the M. S., Dr. Currie has written above it in penci 
itieth." 



%: 





m 



344 r//£ LETTERS OF BURNS. 



from the spheres of my studies. I, however, struggled on with my sines 
and co-sines for a few days more ; but stepping into the garden one charm- 
ing noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my angel — 

" Like Proserpine gathering flowers. 
Herself a fairer flower ." 

I: was in vain to think of doing any more good at scliool. The remain- 
ing week I staid 1 did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul about her, 
or steal out to meet her ; and the two last nights of my stay in the country, 
had sleep been a mortal sin, the image of this modest and innocent girl 
liad kept me guiltless. 

I returned home very considerably improved. My reading was enlarged 
with the very important addition of Thomson's and Shenstone's Works : 
1 had seen human nature in a new phasis ; and I engaged several of my 
schoolfellows to keep up a literary correspondence with me. This im- 
proved me in composition. I had met wit!x a collection of letters by the 
wits of Queen Anne's reign, and I pored over them most devoutly. I 
kept copies of any of my own letters that pleased me, and a comparison 
between them and the composition of most of my correspondents fiattered 
my vanity. I carried this whim so far, that though I had not three- 
farthings' worth of business in the world, yet almost every post brought 
me as many letters as if I had bc-cn a broad plodding son of the day-book 
and ledger. 

My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year. 
Vive V amour, et vive la bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. The 
addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure : 
Sterne and Mackenzie — " Tristram Shandy" and the " Man of Feeling" 
— were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind, 
but it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. I had 
usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand ; I took up one or other, as 
it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it 
bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up raged like so 
many devils, till they got vent in rhyme ; and then the conning over my 
verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet ! None of the rhymes of those 
days are in print, except, "Winter, a dirge," the eldest of my printed 
pieces; "The Death of Poor Maillie," "John Barleycorn," and songs 
first, second, and third. Song second was the ebullition of that passion 
which ended the forementioned school-business. 

My twenty-third year was to me an important sera. Partly through 
whim, and partly that I wished to set about doing something in life, I 
joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring town (Irvine), to learn his trade. 
This was an unlucky affair. My . . . and to finish the whole, 
as we were giving a welcome carousal to the new year, the shop took 
fire and burned to ashes, and I was left, like a true poet, not worth a 
sixpence. 

I was obliged to give up this scheme ; the clouds of misfortune were 
gathering thick round my Other's head; and. what was worst of all, he 
was visibly far gone in consumption ; and to crown my distresses, a belle 
Jille, whom I adored, and who had pledged her soul to meet me in the 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar circumstances of morti- 
fication. The finishing evil that brought up the rear of this infernal 
file, was my constitutional melancholy being increased to such a degree, 
that for three months I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied 
by the hopeless wretches who have got their mittimus — depart from me, 
ye cursed ! 

From this adventure I learned something of a town life; but the princi- 
pal thing which gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed with 
a voung fellow, a very noble character, but a hapless son of misfortune. 
He was the son of a simple mechanic ; but a great man in the neighbour- 
iiood taking him under his patronage, gave him a genteel education, with 
a view of bettering his situation in life. The patron dying just as he was 
ready to launch out into the world, the poor fellow in despair went to sea : 
where, after a variety of good and ill-fortune, a little before I was ac- 
(juainted with him he had been set on shore by an American privateer, on 
the wild coast of Connaught, stripped of every thing. I cannot quit this 
poor fellow's story without adding, that he is at this time master of a large 
West-lndiaman belonging to the Thames. 

His mind was fraught with indejjendence, magnanimity, and every 
manly virtue. I loved and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and 
of course strove to imitate him. In some measure I succeeded ; I had 
pride before, but he taught it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge 
of the world was vastly superior to mine, and I was all attention to learn. 
He was the only man I ever saw who was a greater fool than myself where 
woman was the presiding star ; but he spoke of illicit love with the levity 
of a sailor, which hitherto 1 had regarded with horror. Here his friend- 
ship did me a mischief, and the consequence was, that soon after I resumed 
the plough, I wrote the " Poet's Welcome." ^ My reading only increased 
while in this town by two stray volumes of Pamela, and one of Ferdinand 
Count Fathom, which gave me some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some 
religious pieces that are m print, I had given up ; but meeting with Fer- 
gusson's Scottish Poems, I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with 
emulating vigour. When my father died, his all went among the hell- 
hounds that growl in the kennel of justice ; but we made a shift to collect 
a little money in the family amongst us. with which, to keep us together, 
my brother and I took a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted my hair- 
brained imagination, as well as my social and amorous madness ; but in 
good sense, and every sober qualification, he was far my superior. 

I entered on this farm with a full resolution, "come, go to, I will be 
wise ! " I read farming books, I calculated crops ; I attended markets : 
and in short, in spite of the devil, and the world, and the flesh, I believe 
I should have been a wise man ; but the first year, from unfortunately buy- 
ing bad seed, the second from a late harvest, we lost half our crops. This 
overset all my wisdom, and I returned, "like the dog to his vomit, and 
the sow that was washed, to her wallowing: in the mire." 




Rob the Rhymer's Welcome to his Bastard Child." 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 





I now began to be known in the neighbourhood as a maker of rhymes. 
The first ot'my poetic offspring that saw the Hglit, was a burlesque lamen- 
tation on a quarrel between two reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis 
personcE in my '• Holy Fair." I had a notion myself that the piece had 
some merit ; but, to prevent the worst, I gave a cop}- of it to a friend, who 
was very fond of such things, and told him that I could not guess who 
was the author of it, but that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain 
description of the clergy, as well as laity, it met with a roar of applause. 
" Holy Willie's Prayer" next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk- 
session so much, that they held several meetings to look over their spiri- 
tual artillery, if haply any of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. 
Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on another side, within point- 
blank shot of their heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story that gave 
rise to my printed poem, " The Lament." This was a most melancholy 
affair, which I cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had very nearly given me 
one or two of the principal qualifications for a place among those who have 
lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of rationality. I gave up my 
part of the farm to my brother ; in truth it was only nominally mine : and 
made what little preparation was in my power for Jamaica. But before 
leaving my native country for ever, I resolved to publish my poems. I 
weighed my productions as impartially as was in my power ; I thought they 
had merit ; and it was a delicious idea that I should be called a clever fel- 
low, even though it should never reach my ears — a poor negro-driver — 
or perhaps a victim to that inhospitable clime, and gone to the world of 
spirits ! I can truly say, that pauvre incotinii as I then was, I had pretty 
nearly as high an idea of myself and of my works as I have at this mo- 
ment, when the public has decided in their favour. It ever was my opinion 
that the mistakes and blunders, both in a rational and religious point of 
view, of which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing to their ignorance 
of themselves. To know myself had been all along my constant study. 
I weighed myself alone ; I balanced myself with others ; I watched every 
means of information, to see how much ground I occupied as a man and 
as a poet ; I studied assiduously Nature's design in my formation — where 
the lights and shades in my character were intended. I was pretty confi- 
dent my poems would meet with some applause ; but at the worst, the roar 
of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of censure, and the novelty of West 
Indian scenes make me forget neglect. I threw off six hundred copies, of 
which I had got subscriptions for about three hundred and fifty. My van- 
ity was highly gratified by the reception I met with from the public ; and 
besides I pocketed, all expenses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This sum 
came very seasonably, as I was thinking of indenting myself, for want of 
money to procure my passage. As soon as I was master of nine guineas, 
the price of wafting me to the torrid zone, I took a steerage passage in 
the first ship that was to sail from the Clyde, for 



" Hungry i 




THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 347 



I had been for some days skulking from covert to covert, under all the 
terrors of a jail ; as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the merciless 
pack of the law at my heels. I had taken the last farewell of my few 
friends ; my chest was on the road to Greenock ; 1 had composed the last 
song I should ever measure in Caledonia — " The gloomy night is gather- 
ing fast," when a letter from Ur. Blacklock to a friend of mine, overthrew 
all my schemes, by opening new prospects to my poetic ambition. The 
doctor belonged to a set of critics for whose applause I had not dared to 
hope. His opinion, that I would meet with encouragement in Edinburgh 
for a second edition, fired me so much, thai away I posted for that city, with- 
out a single acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. The baneful 
star that had so long shed its blasting influence in my zenith, for once 
made a revolution to the nadir ; and a kind Providence placed me under 
the patronage of one of the noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. Qjiblie 
inoi, gratid Dieiu si jamais je Voubliel 

I need relate no farther. At Edinburgh I was in a new world ; I mingled 
among many classes of men, but all of them new to me, and I was all 
attention to "catch" the characters and "the manners living as they rise." 
Whether I have profited, time will show. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss Williams. Her very elegant 
and friendly letter I cannot answer at present, as my presence is requisite 
in Edinburgh, and I set out to-morrow. — R. B. 



No. LIX. 

TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

My dear Sir. Stirling, 26M Angust, 1787. 

1 intended to have written you from Edinburgh, and now write you 
from Stirling to make an excuse. Here am I, on my way to Inverness, with 
a truly original, but very worthy man, a Mr. Nicol, one of the masters of 
tlie High-school in Edinburgh. I left Auld Reekie yesterday morning, 
and have passed, besides by-excursions, Linlithgow, Borrowstouness, Fal- 
kirk, and here am I undoubtedly. This morning I knelt at the tomb of 
Sir John the Graham, the gallant friend of the immortal Wallace ; and two 
hours ago I said a fervent prayer for Old Caledonia over the hole in a blue 
whinstone, where Robert de Bruce fixed his royal standard on the banks 
of Bannockburn ; and just now, from Stirling Castle, I have seen by the 
setting sun the glorious prospect of the windings of Forth through the rich 
carse of Stirling, and skirting the equally rich carse of Falkirk. The crops 
are very strong, but so very late that there is no harvest, except a ridge or 
two perhaps in ten miles, all the way I have travelled from Edinburgh. 

I left Andrew Bruce and family all well. I will be at least three weeks 
in making my tour, as I shall return by the coast, and have many people to 
call for. 






:^tU 



L 348 



THE LETTERS OF BUR. VS. 



My best compliments to Charles, our dear kinsman and fellow-saint : and 
Messrs. W. and H. Parkers. 1 hope Hughoc is going on and prospering 
with God and Miss M'Causlin. 

If I could think on anything sprightly, I should let you hear every other 
post; but a dull, matter-of-fact business like this scrawl, the less and sel- 
domer one writes, the better. 

Among other matters-of-fact I shall add this, that I am and ever shall be. 

My dear Sir, 

Your obliged 

R. B. 



No. LX. 

Tf) (lAVIX HAMILTON, ESQ. 

[Mr. Tait, of llarvieston, was a connexion of Gavin Hamilton; Mrs. Tait, who 
was then dead, Mrs. Hamilton (Gavin's stepmother) who presided over the house- 
hold at Harvieston, and Mrs. Chalmers, were sisters.] 

My dear Sir, Stirling, iWi August, 1787. 

Here am I on my way to Inverness. I have rambled over the rich, 
fertile carses of Falkirk and Stirling, and am delighted with their appear- 
ance : richly waving crops of wheat, barley, &c., but no harvest at all yet. 
except, in one or two places, an old wife's ridge. Yesterday morning I 
rode from this town up the meandering Devon's banks, to pay my respects 
to some Ayrshire folks at Harvieston. After breakfast, we made a party 
to go and see the famous Caudron-linn, a remarkable cascade in the Devon, 
about five miles al)o\e Harvieston ; and after spending one of the most 
pleasant days I ever had in my life, I returned to Stirling in the evening. 
They are a family. Sir : though I had not had any prior tie, though they 
had not been the brother and sisters of a certain generous friend of mine, 
I would never forget them. I am told you have not seen them these sev- 
eral years, so you can have very little idea of what these young folks now 
are. Your brother is as tall as you are, but slender rather than otherwise ; 
and I have the satisfaction to inform you that he is getting the better of 
those consumptive symptoms which I suppose you know were threatening 
him. His make, and particularly his manner, resemble you, but he will 
still have a finer face. (I put in the word still, to please ^Irs. Hamilton.) 
Good sense, modesty, and at the same time a just idea of that respect that 
man owes to man, and has a right in his turn to exact, are striking features 
in his character ; and, what with me is the Alpha and the Omega, he has 
a heart that might adorn the breast of a poet! Grace has a good figru'e, 
and the look of health and cheerfulness, but nothing else remarkable in 
her person. I scarcely ever saw so striking a likeness as is between her and 
your little Beenie ; the mouth and chin particularly. She is reserved at first ; 
but as we grew better accjuainted, I was delighted with the native frankness 
of her manner, and the sterling sense of her observation. Of Charlotte ' I 



Daughter of Mrs. H.i.uilt 



^ 




-L£J 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 349 

cannot speak in common terms of admiratioi' : she is not only beautiful, 
hut lovely. Her form is elegant ; her features not regular, but they have 
the smile of sweetness and the settled complaceucy of good nature in the 
highest degree ; and her complexion, now that she has happily recovered 
her wonted health, is equal to Miss Burnet's. After the exercise of our 
riding to the Falls, Charlotte was exactly Dr. Donne's mistress : — 

" Her pure and eloquent blood 

Spoke in her cheelcs, and so distinctly wrought, 
That one would ahnost say her body thought." 

Her eyes are fascinating; at once expressive of good sense, tenderness, 
and a noble mind. 

I do not give you all this account, my good Sir, to flatter you. I mean 
it to reproach you. Such relations the first peer in the realm might own 
with pride ; then why do you not keep up more correspondence with 
these .so amiable young folks? I had a thousand questions to answer 
about you I had to describe the little ones with the minuteness of 
anatomy. They were highly delighted when I told them that John was 
so good a boy, and so fine a scholar, and that Willie was going on still 
very pretty ; but I have it in commission to tell her from them that 
beauty is a poor silly bauble witliout she be good. M-fss Chalmers I 
had left in Edinburgh, .but I had the pleasure of meeting with Mrs. 
Chalmers, only Lady Mackenzie ' being rather a little alarmingly iil of a 
sore throat somewhat marred our enjoyment. 

I shall not be in Ayrshire for four weeks. My most respectful com- 
l)liments to Mrs. Hamilton, Miss Kennedy, and Doctor Mackenzie. J 
shall probably write him from some stage or other. 

I am ever. Sir, 

Yours most gratefully, 

R. B. 

No. LXI. 

TO MR. WALKER, 



[Mr. Josiah Walker, afterwards Professor, had met Burns at Edinburgh, and 
ras then engaged at Blair Athol as a tutor. lie introduced Burns to the Athole 
family, and it was in commemoration of his very kind reception that the Poet 
<vrote the piece accompanying this letter, " The Mumble Petition of Bruar-water." 
Mrs. Graham and Miss Cathcart, mentioned below, were sisters of the Duchess.] 

My dear Sir, Invbrness, 5//^ September, 1787. 

I have just time to write the foregoing, and to tell you that it was 
(at least most part of it) the effusion of an half-hour 1 spent at Bruar. 
I do not mean it was extempore, for I have endeavoured to brush it u]D as 
well as Mr. Nicol's chat and the jogging of the chaise would allow. It 
eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the coin with which a poet pays 
his debts of honour or gratitude. 'What I owe to the noble family of 

' One of Mrs. Chahneis' married daughters, wife of .Sir Hector Mackenzie. 



TK- 



^ 





350 THE LB. TTERS OF BURNS. 



If 



Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever proudly boast; what I owe of the 
last, so help me God in my hour of need ! I shall never forget. 

The •' little angel-band ! " I declare I prayed for them very sincerely 
to-day at the Fall of Fyers. I shall never forget the fine family-piece I 
saw at Blair ; the amiable, the truly noble Duchess, with her smiling little 
seraph in her lap, at the head of the table : the lovely "olive plants ; " as 
the Hebrew bard finely says, round the happy mother: the beautiful Airs. 

G ; the lovely, sweet Mi.ss C , &c. 1 wish I had the powers ot 

Guido to do them justice ! My Lord Duke's kind hospitality — markedly 
kind indeed. Mr. Graham of Fintry's charms of conversation — .Sir W. 
Murray's friendship. In short, the recollections of ail that polite, agree- 
able company raises an honest glow in my bosom. — R. b. 



No. LXII. 
TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

My dear Brother, EDiNm-RGH, 17//; Sepfemher, 1787. 

I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a tour of twenty-two days, 
and travelling near six hundred miles, windings included. My farthest 
stretch was about ten miles beyond Inverness. I went through the heart 
of the Highlands by Crieff, Taymouth, the famous seat of Lord Bredal- 
bane, down the Tay, among cascades and Druidical circles of stones, to 
Dunkeld, a seat of the Duke of Athole ; thence across Tay, and up one 
of his tributary streams to Blair of Athole, another of the Duke's seats, 
where I had the honour of spending nearly two days with his Grace and 
family ; thence many miles through a wild country among cliffs gray with 
eternal snows and gloomy savage glens, till I crossed Spey and went 
down the stream through Strathspey, — so famous in Scotch music, — 
Badenoch, &c., till I reached Grant Castle, where I spent half a day with 
Su^ James Grant and family ; and then crossed the country for Fort 
George, but called by the way at Cawdor, the ancient seat of Macbeth : 
there I saw the identical bed, in which tradition says King Duncan was 
murdered : lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, and so on. to Aberdeen, 
thence to Stonehive. where James Burness, from Montrose, met me by 
appointment. I spent two days among our relations, and found our 
aunts, Jean and Isabel, still alive, and hale old women. John Cairn,' 
though born the same year with our father, walks as vigorously as I can : 
the\- have had several letters from his son in New York. William Brand 
is likewise a stout old fellow ; but further particulars I delay till I see you, 
which will be in two or three weeks. The rest of my stages are not 
worth rehearsing : warm as I was from Ossian's country, where I had 
seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing-towns or fertile carses? I 
slept at the famous Brodie of Brodle's one night, and dined at Gordon 
Castle next da\'. with the Duke, Duchess, and family. I am thinking to 

1 Husband of Elizabeth Kurns, another aunt. Mr. Brand was Isabel's husband. 



S 



m 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



cause my old mare to meet me, by means of John Ronald, at Glasgow ; 
but you shall hear farther from me before I leave Edinburgh. My duty 
and many compliments from the north to my mother ; and my brotherly 
compliments to the rest. I have been trying for a berth for William, i 
but am not likely to be successful. Farewell. — R. B. 



No. LXIII. 
TO MISS MARGARET CHALMERS. 

September -ibth, 1787. 

I SEND Charlotte'^ the first number of the songs; 1 would not wait 
f(?r the second number; I hate delays in little marks of friendship, as 1 
hate dissimulation in the language of the heart. I am determined to pay 
Charlotte a poetic compliment, if 1 could hit on some glorious old Scotch 
air, in number second.^ You will see a small attempt on a shred of paper 
in the book; but, though Dr. Blacklock commended it very highly, 1 am 
not just satisfied with it myself. I intend to make it a description of some 
kind : the whining cant of love, e.xcept in real passion, and by a masterly 
hand, is to me as insufferable as the preaching cant of old Father Smeaton, 
Whig-minister at Kilmaurs. Darts, flames, Cupids, loves, graces, and all 
that farrago, are just a Mauchline .... a senseless rabble. 

1 got an excellent poetic epistle yesternight from the old, venerable 
author of " Tullochgorum," "John of Badenyon," &c.* I suppose you 
know he is a clergyman. It is by far the finest poetic compliment I ever 
got. 1 will send you a copy of it. 

I go on Thursday or Friday to Dumfries, to wait on Mr. Miller about 
his farms. Do tell that to Lady Mackenzie, that she may give me credit 
for a little wisdom. " I Wisdom dwell with Prudence." What a blessed 
fire-side ! How happy should I be to pass a winter evening under their 
venerable roof! and smoke a pipe of tobacco, or drink water-gruel with 
them ! What solemn, lengthened, laughter-quashing gravity of phiz ! 
What sage remarks on the good-for-nothing sons and daughters of indis- 
cretion and folly ! And what frugal lessons, as we straitened the fire-side 
circle, on the uses of the poker and tongs ! 

Miss N. [immo] is very well, and begs to be remembered in the old way to 
you. I used all my eloquence, all the persuasive flourishes of the hand, 
and heart-melting modulation of periods in my power, to urge her out to 
Harvieston, but all in vain. My rhetoric seems quite to have lost its effect 
on the lovely half of mankind. 1 have seen the day — but that is a " tale 
of other years." In my conscience I believe that my heart has been so 
oft on fire that it is absolutely vitrified. I look on the sex with something 
like the admiration with which I regard the starry sky in a frosty December 
night. I admire the beauty of the Creator's workmanship ; I am charmed 
with the wild but graceful eccentricity of their motions, and — wish them 
good night. I mean this with respect to a certain passion <^i9;// ya/^« 

' Burns' younger brother. - Charlotte Hamilton. ^ Qf the Scots Musical Museum. 

•< Rev. John Skinner, father of Bishop Skinner. The Utter was in the shape of a poetic* 
address to the " Country Ploughman." 






352 THE LETTERS OF R URNS. 

rhonneur d'etre im miserable esclave : as for friendship, you and Charlotte 
have given nie pleasure, permanent pleasure, " which the world cannot 
give nor take away," I hope ; and which will outlast the heavens and the 
earth. — R. B. 



TO THE SAME. 

Without date. 

I HAVE been at Dumfries, and at one visit more shall be decided about 
a farm in that country. 1 am rather hopeless in it ; but as my brother is 
an excellent farmer, and is, besides, an exceedingly prudent, sober man 
(qualities wliich are only a younger brother's fortune in our family) , I am 
determined, if my Dumfries business fail me, to return into partnership 
with him, and at our leisure take another farm in the neighbourhood. 

I assure you I look for high compliments from you and Charlotte on 
this very sage instance of my unfathomable, incomprehensible wisdom. 
Talking of Charlotte, I must tell her that I have, to the best of my power, 
paid her a poetic compliment, now completed. The air is admirable : 
true old Highland. It was the tune of a Gaelic song, which an Inverness 
lady sung me when I was there ; and I was so charmed with it that I 
begged her to write me a set of it from her singing ; for it had never been 
set before. I am fixed that it shall go in Johnson's next number ; so 
Charlotte and you need not spend your precious time in contradicting me. 
I won't say the poetry is first-rate ; though I am convinced it is very well ; 
and, what is not always the case with complime-nts to ladies, it is not onh 
sincere, but just. 

[Mere follows the song of " The Banks of the Devon," given in page 215.] 

R. B. 

No. LXV. 

TO JAMES HOY, ESQ., 



[Hoy was librarian at Gordon Castle — a character of the Dominie Sampson 
kind. " It was," says Mr. Robert Carruthers, " the business of Hoy, during the 
day,- to store his mind with all such knowledge as the publications of the time sup- 
plied; and then over a bottle of claret, after dinner, impart to his Grace of Gordon, 
all that he reckoned valuable or important." Burns was delighted with his blunt, 
straightforward manner, and the librarian strove, it is said, to repay it by giving 
the postboy a crown to contrive, no matter how, to stop the bard's departure from 
Fochabers. The fierce impetuosity of Nicol prevented this.] 

Sir. Edinburgh, ■20th October, 1787. 

1 will defend my conduct in giving you this trouble, on the best of 

Christian principles — "Whatsoever ye would that men should do unto 

you, do ye even so unto them." I shall certainly, among my legacies, 

leave niv latest curse to tliat unlucky predicament whicli hurried — tore me 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 353 



away from Castle Gordon. May that obstinate son of Latin prose [Nicol] 
be curst to Scotch mile periods, and damned to seven league paragraphs : 
while Declension and Conjugation, Gender, Number, and Time, under the 
ragged banners of Dissonance and Disarrangement, eternally rank against 
Iiim in hostile array. 

Allow me. Sir, to strengthen the small claim I have to your acquaintance, 
by the following request. An engraver, James Johnson, in Edinburgh, 
has, not from mercenary views, but from an honest Scotch enthusiasm, 
set about collecting all our native songs and setting them to music ; par- 
ticularly those that have never been set before. Clarke, the well-known 
musician, presides over the musical arrangement, and Drs. Beattie and 
I)lacklock, Mr. Tytler of Woodhouselee, and your humble servant to the 
utmost of his small power, assist in collecting the old poetry, or sometimes 
for a fine air make a stanza, when it has no words. The brats, too tedious 
to mention, claim a parental pang from my bardship. I suppose it will 
appear in Johnson's second number — the first was published before my 
acquaintance with him. My request is — " Cauld Kail in Aberdeen," is 
one intended for this number, and 1 beg a copy of his Grace of Gordon's 
words to it, which you were so kind as to repeat to me. You may be sure 
we won't prefix the author's name, except you like, though I look on it as 
no small merit to this work that the names of many of the autliors of our 
old Scotch songs, names almost forgotten, will be inserted. I do not well 
know where to write to you — I rather write at you ; but if you will be so 
obliging, immediately on receipt of this, as to write me a few lines, 1 shall 
perhaps pay you in kind, though not in quality. Johnson's terms are : — 
each number a handsome pocket volume, to consist at least of a hundred 
Scotch songs, with basses for the harpsichord, &c. The price to sub- 
scribers, 55. ; to non-subscribers, 6.?. He will have three numbers, I 
conjecture. 

My direction for two or three weeks will be at Mr. William Cruikshank's. 
St. James's-square, New-town, Edinburgh. 

I am. Sir, 

Yours to command, 

R. B. 

No. LXVI. 

TO REV. JOHN SKINNEF. 

Reverend and venerable Sir, ^u\k2.vr.gw, October ■2sth,^^^^. 

Accept, in plain dull prose, my most sincere thanks for the best 
poetical compliment I ever received. I assure you. Sir, as a poet, you 
have conjured up an airy demon of vanity in my fancy, which the best 
abilities in your other capacity would be ill able to lay. I regret, and 
while I live I shall regret, that when I was in the north, I had not the 
pleasure of paying a younger brother's dutiful respect to the author of the 
best Scotch song ever Scotland saw — " TuUochgorum's my delight!"" 
The world may think slightingly of the craft of song-making if they 



Li 





^ 



^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



please, but, as Job says — ^ " O that mine adversary had written a book ! " 
— let them try. There is a certain something in the old Scotch songs, a 
wild happiness of thought and expression, which peculiarly marks them, 
not only from English songs, but also from the modern efforts of song- 
wrights, in our native manner and language. The only remains of this 
enchantment, these spells of the imagination, rests with you. Our true 
brother, Ross of Lochlee, was likewise " owre cannie "' — a •• wild war- 
'ock ; " but now he sings among the " sons of the morning."' 

I have often wished, and will certainly endeavour, to form a kind of 
common acquaintance among all the genuine sons of Caledonian song. 
The world, busy in low prosaic pursuits, may overlook most of us ; but 
" reverence thyself." The world is not owy peers, so we challenge the jury. 
We can lash that world, and find ourselves a very great source of amuse- 
ment and happiness independent of that world. 

There is a work going on in Edinburgh, just now, which claims your 
best assistance. An engraver in this town has set about collecting and 
publishing all the Scotch songs, with the music, that can be found. Songs 
in the English language, if by Scotchmen, are admitted, but the music 
must all be Scotch. Drs. Beattie and Blacklock are lending a hand, and 
the first musician in town presides over that department. I have been 
absolutely crazed about it. collecting old stanzas, and every information 
remaining respecting their origin, authors, &c. &c. This last is but a very 
fragment business; but at the end of his second number — the first is 
already published — a small account will be given of the authors, particu- 
larly to preserve those of latter times. Your three songs, " Tullochgorum," 
" John of Badenyon," and '• Ewie wi' the crookit Horn," go in this second 
number. I was determined, before I got your letter, to write you, begging 
that you would let me know where the editions of these pieces may be 
found, as you would wish them to continue in future times ; and if you 
would be so kind to this undertaking as send any songs, of your own or 
others that you would think proper to publish, your name will be inserted 
among the other authors, — " Nill ye, will ye." One half of Scotland 
already give your songs to other authors. Paper is done. I beg to hear 
from you ; the sooner the better, as I leave Edinburgh in a fortnight or 
three weeks. 

1 am, with the warmest sincerity. Sir, 

Your obliged humble servant, 

R. B. 

No. LXVII. 
TO JAMES HOY, E.SQ., 

GORDON (.WSTLK. 

Dear Sir, Edinburgh, 6M iVOT^w^v, 1787. 

I would have wrote you immediately on receipt of your kind letter, 

but a mixed impulse of gratitude and esteem whispered to me that I ought 

"o send you something by way of return. When a poet owes anything, 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



particularly when he is indebted for good offices, the payment that usually 
recurs to him — the only coin indeed in which he is probably conversant — 
is rhyme. Johnson sends the books by the fly, as directed, and begs me 
to enclose his most grateful thanks : my return I intended should have 
been one or two poetic bagatelles which the world have not seen, or 
perhaps, for obvious reasons, cannot see. These I shall send you before 
I leave Edinburgh. They may make you laugh a little, which, on the 
whole, is no bad way of spending one's precious hours and still more 
precious breath : at any rate, they will be, though a small, yet a very 
sincere mark of my respectful esteem for a gentleman whose farther 
acquaintance I should look upon as a peculiar obligation. 

The Duke's song, independent totally of his dukeship, charms me. 
There is I know not what of wild happiness of thought and e.xpression 
peculiarly beautiful in the old Scottish song style, of which his Grace, old 
venerable Skinner, the author of " Tullochgorum," (S:c., and the late Ross 
at Lochlee, of true Scottish poetic memory, are the only modern instances 
that I recollect, since Ramsa\-, with his contemporaries, and poor Bob 
Fergusson, went to the world of deathless existence and truly immortal 
song. The mob of mankind, that man\-headed beast, would laugh at so 
serious a speech about an old song ; but, as Job says, "O that mine adver- 
sary had written a book ! " Those who think that composing a Scotch 
song is a trifling business — let them try. 

I wish my Lord Duke would pay a proper attention to the Christian 
admonition — '• Hide not your candle under a bushel," but "• Let your light 
shine before men." I could name half a dozen dukes that I guess are a 
devilish deal worse employed : nay, I question if there are half a dozen 
better : perhaps there are not half that scanty number whom Heaven has 
favoured with the tuneful, happw and, I will say, glorious gift. 

I am. clear Sir, 
Your obliged humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. LXVIIL 
TO ROBERT AIXSLIE, ESQ., 

KDINBI'RCH. 

Edinbi-rgh, Simdny Morning, November 23a', 1787. 

I BEG, my dear Sir. you would not make any appointment to take us to 
Mr. Ainslie's to-night. On looking over my engagements, constitution, 
present state of my health, some little vexatious soul concerns, &c., I find 
I can't sup abroad to-night. I shall be in to-day till one o'clock, if you 
have a leisure hour. 

You will think it romantic when I tell you, that I find the idea of )Our 
friendship almost necessary to my existence. You assume a proper length 
of face in my bitter hours of blue-devilism, and you laugh fully up to 'm\- 
highest wishes at my good things. I don't know upon the whole, if yoii 




Q?^= 




356 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. !1£ 



^ 



are one of the first fellows in God's world, but you are so to me. I tel' 
you this just now in the conviction that some inequalities in my temper 
and manner may perhaps sometimes make you suspect that I am not so 
warmly as I ought to be your friend. — R. B. 



TO MI.SS MABANE [afterwards MRS. COL. WRIGHT]. 

Saturday noon. No. 2, St. James's Square, New Town, Edinburgh. 
Here have I sat, my dear Madam, in the stony altitude of perplexed 
study for fifteen vexatious minutes, my head askew, bending over the 
intended card ; my fixed eye insensible to the very light of day poured 
around ; my pendulous goose-feather, loaded with ink, hanging over the 
future letter, all for the important purpose of writing a compUmentary card 
to accompany your trinket. 

Compliment is such a miserable Greenland expression, lies at such a 
chilly polar distance from the torrid zone of my constitution, that I cannot, 
for the very soul of me, use it to any person for whom I have the twentieth 
part of the esteem every one must have for you who knows you. 

As I leave town in three or four days, I can give myself the pleasure of 
calling on you only for a minute. Tuesday evening, some time about 
seven or after, I shall wait on you for your farewell commands. 

The hinge of your box I put into the hands of the proper connoisseur. 
The broken glass, likewise, went under review ; but deliberative wisdom 
thought it would too much endanger the wliole tabric. 
I am, clear Madam, 

With all sincerity of enthusiasm. 

Your very obedient Servant, 

R. B. 

No. LXX. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, November 21, 1787. 

I HAVE one vexatious fault to the kindly-welcome, well-filled sheet which 
I owe to vour and Charlotte's goodness — it contains too much sense, 
sentiment, and good spelling. It is impossible that even you two, whom 
I declare to my God 1 will give credit for any degree of excellence the sex 
are capable of attaining, it is impossible you can go on to correspond 
at that rate ; so, like those who, Shenstone says, retire because they have 
made a good speech, I shall, after a few letters, hear no more of you. I 
insist that you shall write whatever comes first : what you see, what you 
read, what you hear, what you admire, what you dislike, trifles, bagatelles, 
nonsense ; or to fill up a corner, e'en put down a laugh at full length. 
Now none of your polite hints about flattery : I leave that to your lovers, 
if vou have or shall ha\'e an\' ; though, thank heaven, I have found at 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



last two ojirls who can be luxuriantly happy in their own minds and with 
one another, without tliat commonly necessary appendage to female bliss 
— a lover. 

Charlotte and you are just two favourite resting-places for m\- soul in 
her wanderings througli^the weary, thorny wilderness of this world. (Jod 
knows I am ill-fitted for the struggle : I glory in being a Poet, and I want 
to be thought a wise man — 1 would fondly be generous, and I wish to be 
rich. After all, I am afraid 1 am a lost subject. " Some folk hae a hantle 
o' fauts, an' Tm but a ne'er-do-weel." 

Afternoon. — To close the melancholy reflections at the end of last 
sheet, 1 shall just add a piece of devotion commonly known in CarricK b)- 
the title of the " Wabster's grace : " 




' Some say we're thieves, and e'en sae are we 
Some say we lie, and e'en sae do we ! 
Gude forgie us, and I hope sae will he! 
Up and to your looms, lads." 



No. LXXI. 
TO SIR JOHN WHITEFOORD. 



R. B. 



.Sir, [Edinburgh, December, 1787. J 

Mr. Mackenzie, in Mauchline, my very warm and worthy friend, 
has informed me how much you are jDleased to interest yourself in ni}- 
fate as a man, and (what to me is incomparably dearer) my fame as 
a poet. I have, Sir, in one or two instances, been patronized by those of 
your character in life, when I was introduced to their notice by . . . 
friends to them, and honoured acquaintances to me ; but you are the first 
gentleman in the country whose benevolence and goodness of heart has 
interested himself for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not master 
enough of the etiquette of these matters to know, nor did I stay to inquire, 
whether formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, my thanking you 
in this manner, as I am convinced, from the light in which you kindl\- 
view me, that you will do me the justice to believe this letter is not the 
manoeuvre of the needy, sharping author, fastening on those in upper 
life, who honour him with a little notice of him or his works. Indeed, 
the situation of poets is generally such, to a proverb, as may, in some 
measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and talents they have at times 
been guilty of. I do not think prodigality is, by any means, a necessar\- 
concomitant of a poetic turn, but I believe a careless, indolent attention 
to economy is £.Imost inseparable from it ; then there must be in the 
heart of every bard of Nature's making, a certain modest sensibility, 
mixed with a kind of pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of 
those windfalls of fortune which frequently light on hardy impudence and 
foot-licking servility. It is not easy to imagine a more helpless state than 
his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the world, and whose character as a 
scholar gives him some pretensions to \\\it politcsse of life — yet is as poo> 
:is I am. 



'S 



w 



zL£. 



35 S THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 




For my part, I thank Heaven my star has been kinder ; learning never 
elevated my ideas above the peasant's shed, and I have an independent 
fortune at the plough-tail. 

I was surprised to hear that any one who pretended in the least to the 
manners of the gentleman, should be so foolish ^r worse, as to stoop to 
traduce the morals of such a one as I am, and so inhumanly cruel, too, as 
to meddle with that late most vmfortunate, unhappy part of my storw 
With a tear of gratitude, I thank you. Sir, for the warmth with which you 
interposed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknowledge, too frequently 
the sport of whim, caprice, and passion, but reverence to God, and integ- 
rity to my fellow-creatures, 1 hope I shall ever preserve. I have nz) 
return. Sir, to make you for your goodness but one — a return which I am 
persuaded will not be unacceptable — the honest, warm wishes of a 
grateful heart for your happiness, and every one of that lovely flock, who 
stand to vou in a tilial relation. If ever calumny aini the poisoned shaft at 
them, may friendship be by to ward the blow ! — R. 1). 



No. LXXII. 

TO GAVIN HAMILTON. 

My dear Sir, [Km-^WRCH, December, ly^T.] 

It is indeed with the highest pleasure that I congratulate you on 
the return of days of ease and nights of pleasure, after the horrid hours 
of misery in which I saw you suffering existence when last in Ayrshire ; 
I seldom pray for anybody, " I'm baith dead-sweer and wretched ill o't ; " 
but most fervently do I beseech the Power that directs the world, that you 
may live long and be happy, but live no longer than you are happy. It is 
needless for me to advise you to have a reverend care of your health. I 
know you will make it a point never at one time to drink more than a pint 
of wine (I mean an English pint), and that you will never be witness to 
more than one bowl of punch at a time, and that cold drams you will 
never more taste ; and, above all things, I am convinced, that after drink- 
ing perhaps boiling punch, you will never mount your horse and gallop 
home in a diill late hour. Above all things, as I understand you are in 
habits of intimacy with that Boanerges of gospel powers, Father Auld, be 
earnest with him that he will wrestle in prayer for you, that you may see 
the vanity of vanities in trusting to, or even practising the casual moral 
works of charity, humanity, generosity, and forgiveness of things, which 
you practised so flagrantly that it was evident you delighted in them, neg- 
lecting, or perhaps profanely despising, the wholesome doctrine of faith 
without works, the only author of salvation. A hymn of thanksgiving 
would, in my opinion, be highly becoming from you at present, and in my 
zeal for your well-being, I earnestly press on you to be diligent in chaunt- 
Ing over the two enclosed pieces of sacred poesy. My best compliments 
to Mrs. Hamilton and Miss Kennedy. 

Yours, &c., 

R B. 




«^ 



THE LE r TERS OF B URXS. 359 

No. LXXIII. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

My dear Madam, Edinburgh, December, 1787. 

I just now have read yours. The poetic compHments I pay cannot 
be misunderstood. They are neither of them so particular as to point you 
out to the world at large ; and the circle of your acquaintances will allow 
all I have said. Besides, I have complimented you chiefly, almost solely, 
on your mental charms. Shall I be plain with you? I will ; so look to it. 
Personal attractions. Madam, you have much above par ; wit, understand- 
ing, and worth, you possess in the first class. This is a cursed flat way of 
telling you these truths, but let me hear no more of your sheepish timidity. 
I know the world a little. I know what they will say of my poems ; by 
second sight I suppose, for I am seldom out in my conjectures ; and you 
may believe me, my dear Madam, I would not nm any risk of hurting you 
by any ill-judged compliment. I wish to show the world the odds between 
poet's friends and those of simple prosemen. More for your information, 
both the pieces go in. One of them, "Where braving angry winter's 
storms," is already set — the tune is " Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber- 
cainiy : " the other is to be set to an old Highland air in Daniel Dow's 
collection of ancient Scots music; the name is ''Ha a Cliaillich air 1110 
Dhcitli." M\- treacherous memory has forgot every circumstance about 
Las fncas, only 1 think you mentioned them as being in Creech's posses- 
sion. I shall ask him about it. I am afraid the song of " Somebody " will 
come too late — as I shall for certain, leave town in a week for Ayrshire, 
and from that to Dumfries, but there my hopes are slender. I leave my 
direction in town, so anything, wherever 1 am, will reach me. 

I saw yours to ; it is not too severe, nor did he take it amiss. On 

the conti^ary, like a whipped spaniel, he talks of being with you in the 
Christmas clays. Mr. has given him the invitation, and he is 'de- 
termined to accept it. O selfishness ! he owns, in his sober moments, 
that from his own volatility of inclination, the circumstances in which 
he is situated, and his knowledge of his father's disposition, the whole 
affair is chimerical — yet he w/7/ gratify an idle pe)icliiuit at the enormous, 
cruel expense of perhaps ruining the peace of the very woiiian for whom he 
professes the generous passion of love ! He is a gentleman in his mind 
and manners — tant pis ! He is a volatile school-boy — the heir of a man's 
fortune who well knows the value of two times two ! 

Perdition seize them and their fortunes, before they should make 

the amiable, the lovely ■ , the derided object of their purse-proud 

contempt ! 

I am doubly happy to hear of Mrs. 's recovery, because I really 

thought all was over with her. There are days of pleasure yet awaiting 
her : 

" As I came in by Glenap, 
I met with an aged woman ; 
She bade me cheer up my heart, 
For the best o' my days was comin'." 






360 r//£ LETTERS OF BURNS. 

This day will decide my aiTairs with Creech. Things are, like myself, 
not what they ought to be ; yet better than what they appear to be. 

" Heaven's Sovereign saves all beings, but himself, 
That hideous sight — a naked human heart." 

Farewell ! remember me to Charlotte. 

R. B. 



No. LXXIV. 

TO MRS. M'LEHOSE. 

[The correspondence with Clarinda records one of the most interesting, although 
oy no means creditable episodes of Burns's romantic life. The circumstances 
under which the letters were exchanged are explained in the Biographical 
Preface. It was at the house of Miss Nimmo, an elderly lady, known both to 
Burns and his friend, Miss Chalmers, that they first met at tea, according to Mr. 
Robert Chamber's reckoning, about the 4th of December; and the following letter, 
the first of a remarkable series, is an acceptance of Mrs. M'Lehose's invitation to 
tea, on Saturday the 8th. Mrs. M'Lehose preserved all Burns's letters, which she 
esteemed, in her own words, " precious memorials of an acquaintance, the recollec- 
tion of which would influence me \\ere I to live fourscore." (Letter to Mr. .Syme, 
1796.) After his death she offered to select some passages for publication in the 
collected edition of his writings for the benefit of his widow and children. The 
person to whom she lent the letters for the transcription of the extracts she had 
chosen, copied them all, and published them in violation of his own engageinent 
and against Mrs. M'Lehose's wish. Parts were given in Cromek's Reliques.'] 

jMaDAM Tuesday Evening, [Z'^c^wz/^^-r 6, 1787]. 

I had set no small store by my tea-drinking to-night, and have 
not often been so disappointed. Saturday evening I shall emSrace the 
opportunity with the greatest pleasure. I leave town this day se'nn'ght, 
and probably for a couple of twelvemonths ; but must ever regret that I 
so lately got an acquaintance I shall ever highly esteem, and in wliose 
welfare I shall ever be warnily interested. 

Our worthy common friend, in her usual pleasant way, rallied me a 
good deal on my new acquaintance, and in the humour of her ideas I 
wrote some lines, which I enclose you, as I think they have a good deal 
of poetic merit; and Miss [Nimmo] tells me you are not only a critic, but 
a poetess. Fiction, you know, is the native region of poetry; and I hope 
\ou will pardon my vanity in sending you the bagatelle as a tolerable otf- 
hand jeii cVespj-it. I have several poetic trifles, which I will gladly leave 
with Miss [Nimmo] or you, if they were worth house-room ; as tliere are" 
scarcely two people on earth by whom it would mortify me more to be for- 
gotten, though at the distance of ninescore miles. 

I am, Madam, with the highest respect, 

Your very humble Servant, 






THE LETTERS OE TURXS. 




TO MRS. M'LEHOSE. 

[An accident tlirough a drunken coachman prevented Burns from keeping his 
engagement.] 

Saturday Even [Dec. 8]. 

I CAN say with truth, Madam, that 1 never met with a person in my 
life whom I more anxiously wished to meet again than yourself. To-night 
I was to liave had that very great pleasure — 1 was into.xicated with the 
idea; but an unlucky fall from a coach has so bruised one of my knees, 
that I can't stir my leg off the cushion. So, if I don't see you again, I 
shall not rest in my grave for chagrin. I was vexed to the soul I had not 
seen you sooner. I determinecl to cultivate your friendship with the 
enthusiasm of religion ; but thus has Fortune ever served me. I cannot 
bear the idea of leaving Edinburgh without seeing you. 1 know not how 
to account for it — I am strangely taken with some people, nor am I often 
mistaken. You are a stranger to me ; but I am an odd being. Some yet 
unnamed feelings — things, not principles, but better than whims — carry 
me farther than boasted reason ever did a philosopher. 

Farewell ! every happiness be yours. 

Robert Burns 



No. LXXVI. 

TO MRS. M'LEHOSE. 

[Mrs. M'Lehose, in condoling with him on his accident, said, " Were I your 
sister I would call and see you," and enclosed some verses she had written after 
reading the little poem he had sent her, modestly disclaiming the idea of their 
being poetry.] 

I STRETCH a point indeed, my dearest Madam, when I answer your card 
on the rack of my present agony. Your friendship. Madam ! By heavens, 
I was never proud before I Your lines, I maintain it, are j^oetry, and 
good poetry ; mine were indeed partly fiction, and partly a friendship 
which, had 1 been so blest as to have met with you z'u time, might have led 
me — God of love only knows where. Time is too short for ceremonies. 

I swear solemnly, (in all the tenor of my former oath) to remember you 
in all the pride and warmth of friendship until — I cease to be ! 

To-morrow, and every day, till I see you, you shall hear from me. 

Farewell ! May you enjoy a better night's repose than I am likely tc 





K 



^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




No. LXXVII. 

TO MRS. M'LEHOSE. 

[In her rejoinder Mrs. M'Lehose reminded her correspondent that, though 
practically a widow, she was still a wife, and asked him playfully whether he 
could, Jacob-like, wait seven years for a wife at the risk of being even then dis- 
appointed.] 

Your last, my dear Madam, had the effect on me that Job's situation 
had on his friends, when "they sat down seven days and seven nights 
astonied, and spake not a word." "Pay my addresses to a married 
woman ! " I started as if I had seen tlie ghost of him I had injured : I 
recollected my expressions ; some of them indeed were, in the law phrase, 
" habit and repute," which is being half guilty. I cannot positively say. 
Madam, whether my heart might not have gone astray a little ; but I can 
declare, upon the honour of a poet, that the vagrant has wandered 
unknown to me. I have a pretty handsome troop of follies of my own; 
and, like some other people's retinue, they are but undisciplined black- 
guards : but the luckless rascals have something of honour in them : they 
would not do a dishonest thing. 

To meet with an unfortunate woman, amiable and young, deserted and 
widowed by those who were bound by every tie of duty, nature, and 
gratitude to protect, comfort, and cherish her : add to all, when she is 
perhaps one of the first of lovely forms and noble minds, the mind, too, 
that hits one's taste as the joys of heaven do a saint — should a vague 
infant idea, the natural child of imagination, thoughtlessly peep over the 
fence — were you, my friend, to sit in judgment, and the poor, airy straggler 
brought before you, trembling, self-condemmed, with artless eyes, brimful 
of contrition, looking wistfiilly on its judge, you could not, my dear 
Madam, condemn the hapless wretch to death " without benefit of clergy?" 

I won't tell you what reply my heart made to your raillery of "seven 
years : " but I will give you what a brother of my trade says on the same 
allusion : — 

" The Patriarch to gain a wife, 
Chaste, beautiful and young, 
Served fourteen years a painful life. 
And never thought it long. 

" Oh, were you to reward such cares, 
And life so long would stay. 
Not fourteen but four hundred years 
Would seem as but one day." 

1 have written you this scrawl because I have nothing else to do, and 
you may sit down and find fault with it, if you have no better way of con- 
suming your time ; but finding fault with the vagaries of a poet's fancy 
is much such another business as Xerxes chastising the waves of the 
Hellespont. 

My limb now allows me to sit in some peace : to walk I have yet no 
prospect of, as 1 can't mark it to the ground. 





THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



363 



I have just now looked over what I have written, and it is such a chaos 
of nonsense that I daresay you will throw it into the fire, and call me an 
idle, stupid fellow ; but whatever you may think of my brains, believe me 
to be, with the most sacred respect and heartfelt esteem. 

My dear Madam, your humble Servant, 

Robert Burns. 



No. LXXVIII. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

[It is worth while to break the continuity of the Clarinda correspondence, by 
interspersing other letters written by Burns at the same time, in order to illustrate 
his state of mind at that period, and to enable readers to judge of the artificial 
character of the passionate addresses to that lady.] 

Edinburgh, Dec. 12, 1787. 

1 AM here under the care of a surgeon, with a bruised limb extended on 
a cushion ; and the tints of my mind vying with the livid horror preceding 
a midnight thunderstorm. A dmnken coachman was the cause of the 
first, and incomparably the lightest evil ; misfortune, bodily constitution, 
hell, and myself, have formed a "quadruple alliance" to guarantee the 
other. I got my fall on Saturday, and am getting slowly better. 

I have taken tooth and nail to the Bible, and am got through the five 
books of Moses, and half-way in Joshua. It is really a glorious book. I 
sent for my bookbinder to-day, and ordered him to get me an octavo 
Bible in sheets, the best paper and print in town, and bind it with all the 
elegance of his craft. 

I would give my best song to my worst enemy — I mean the merit of 
making it — to have you and Charlotte by me. You are angelic creatures, 
and would pour oil and wine into my wounded spirit. 

I enclose you a proof copy of the Banks of the Devon, which present 
with my best wishes to Charlotte. The Ochil-hills ^ you shall probably 
have next week for yourself. None of your fine speeches ! — R. B. 



No. LXXIX. 
TO CHARLES HAY, 

ADVOCATE. 



ESQ., 



[Enclosing verses on the death of the Lord President, Robert Dundas of 
Armiston, who died December 13, 1787.] 

-Sir, 

The enclosed poem was written in consequence of your suggestion 
last time I had the pleasure of seeing you. It cost me an hour or two of 
next morning's sleep, but did not please me ; so it lay by, an ill-digested 

' The song in honour of Mi 
'Page 198.) 



Chalmers, beginning, " Where braving angry winter's storms. 



%. 




364 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



effort, till the other da}- that I gave it a critic brush. These kind of sub- 
jects are much haclcneyed ; and, besides, the wailings of the rliyming trilie 
over the ashes of the great are cursedly suspicious, and out of all character 
for sincerity. These ideas damped my muse's tire ; however, I have done 
the best I could, and, at all events, it gives me an opportunity of declaring 
that I have the honour to be, Sir, 

Your obliged humble Servant, 



No. LXXX. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, 19^// Dec, 1787. 

1 BEGIN this letter in answer to yours of the 17th current, which is not 
yet cold since I read it. The atmosphere of my soul is vastly clearer 
than when I wrote you last. For the first time, yesterday I crossed the 
room on crutches. It would do yoiu" heart good to see my bardship, not 
on poetic, but on my oaken stilts : throwing my best leg with an air, and 
with as much hilarity in my gait and countenance, as a May frog leaping 
across the newly-harrowed ridge, enjoying the fragrance of the refreshed 
earth after the long-expected shower ! 

I can't say I am altogether at my ease when I see anywhere in my path 
that meagre, squalid, famine-faced spectre Poverty ; attended as he 
always is by iron-fisted Oppression, and leering Contempt ; but I have 
sturdily withstood his buffetings many a hard-laboured day already, and 
still my motto is — I dare ! My worst enemy is inoi-niemc. I lie so 
miserably open to the inroads and incursions of a mischievous, li^ht- 
armed, well-mounted banditti, under the banners of imagination, whim, 
caprice and passion, and the heavy-armed veteran regulars of wisdom, 
pmdence, and forethought move so very, very slow, that I am almost in 
a state of perpetual warfare, and alas ! frequent defeat. There are just 
two creatures I would envy — a horse in his wild state traversing the 
forests of Asia, or an oyster on some of the desert shores of Europe. The 
one has not a wish without enjovment, the other has neither wish nor 
fear. ' R. B. 



No. LXXXI. 



TO CLARINDA. 



[In the rest of the letters between Mrs. M'Lehose and Burns, she signs herseH" 
C'larinda, and he Sylvander. ] 

Friday EvctLiHg [December 21]. 

1 BEG your pardon, my dear " Clarinda," for the fragment scrawl I sent 
you yesterday. I really do not know what I wrote. A gentleman for 
whose character, abilities, and critical knowledge I have the highest 



7=1- 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



305 



veneration, called in just as I had begun the second sentence, and I would 
not make the porter wait. I read to my much-respected friend several of 
my own bagatelles, and, among others, your lines, which I had copied out. 
He began some criticisms on them as on the other pieces, when I informed 
liim they were the work of a young lady in this town, which, I assure you, 
made him stare. My learned friend seriously protested that he did not 
believe any young woman in Edinburgh was capable of such lines ; and 
if you know anything of Professor Gregory, you will neither doubt of his 
abilities nor his sincerity. I do love you, if possible, still better for hav- 
ing so tine a taste and turn for poesy. I have again gone wrong in my 
usual unguarded way, but you may erase the word, and put esteem, respect, 
or any other tame Dutch expression you please in its place. I believe 
there is no holding converse, or carrying on correspondence, with an amia- 
ble woman, much less a glorzojisly amiable fine wonian., without some mix- 
ture of that delicious passion whose most devoted slave I have more than 
once had the honour of being. But why be hurt or offended on that 
account? Can no honest man have a prepossession for a fine woman, but 
he must run his head against an intrigue? Take a little of the tender 
witchcraft of love, and add to it the generous, the honourable sentiments 
of manly friendship, and I know but one more delightful morsel, which few, 
few in any rank ever taste. Such a composition is like adding cream to 
strawberries : it not only gives the fruit a more elegant richness, but has a 
peculiar deliciousness of its own. 

I enclose you a few lines I composed on a late melancholy occasion.^ 
I will not give above five or six copies of it at all, and I would be hurt if 
any friend should give any copies without my consent. 

You cannot imagine, Clarinda (I like the idea of Arcadian names in a 
commerce of this kind) , how much store I have set by the hopes of your 
future friendship. I do not know if you have a just idea of my character, 
but I wish you to see me as I am. I am, as most people of my trade are, 
a strange Will-o'-wisp being ; the victim, too frequently, of much impru- 
dence and many follies. My great constituent elements are pride and 
passion. The first I have endeavoured to humanise into integrity and 
honour ; the last makes me a devotee to the warmest degree of enthusiasm 
in love, religion, or friendship — either of them, or all together, as I hap- 
pen to be inspired. 'Tis true 1 never saw you but once ; but how much 
acquaintance did I form with you in that once ! Do not think I flatter 
you, or have a design upon you, Clarinda : I have too much pride for the 
one, and too little cold contrivance for the other ; but of all God's 
':reatures T ever could approach in the beaten way of my acquaintance, 
you struck me mth the deepest, the strongest, the most permanent im- 
pression. I say the most permanent, because I know myself well, and 
how far I can promise either in my prepossessions or powers. Why are 
you unhappy? And why are so many of our fellow-creatures, unworthy to 
belong to the same species with you, blest with all they can wish? You 
have a hand all Iienevolent to give: why were you denied the pleasure' 



Probably the verses on the Death of the Lord President, 



%M. 



# 




-tU 



300 J-HE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



Yon have a heart formed — gloriously formed — for all the most refined 
luxuries of love: why was that heart ever wrung? Oh Clarinda! shall 
we not meet in a state, some yet unknown state of being, where the lavish 
hand of plenty shall minister to the highest wish of benevolence, and 
where the chill north wind of prudence shall never blow over the flowery 
fields of enjoyment? If we do not, man was made in vain! I deserve most 
of the unhappy hours that have lingered over my head ; they were the 
wages of my labour: but what unprovoked demon, malignant as hell, stole 
u]Jon the confidence of unmistrusting busy fate, and dashed yo7ir cup of 
life with undeserved sorrow? 

Let me know how long your stay will l^c out of town ; I shall count the 
hours till you inform me of your return. Cursed etiquette forbids your 
seeing me just now ; and so soon as I can walk I must bid Edinburgh 
adieu. Lord! why was I born to see misery which I cannot relieve, and 
to meet with friends whom I cannot enjoy? I look back with the pang of 
unavailing avarice on my loss in not knowing you sooner : all last winter. 
tliese three months past, what luxury of intercourse have I not lost! Per- 
haps, though, 'twas better for my peace. You see I am either above or 
incajxible of dissimulation. I believe it is want of that particular genius. 
I despise design, because I want either coolness or wisdom to be capable 
of it. I am interrupted. Adieu, my clear Clarinda ! 

Syi^vandick. 



No. LXXXII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

JVIv DEAR ClARIXOA, 

Your last verses have so delighted me, that I have copied them in 
among some of my own most valued pieces, which I keep .sacred for my 
own use. Do let me iiave a few now and then. 

Did you. Madam, know what I feel when you talk of your sorrows! 

Good God ! that one who has so much worth in the sight of heaven, 
and is so amiable to her fellow-creatures, should be so unhappy ! I can't 
venture out for cold. My limb is vastly better; but I have not any use of 
it without my crutches. Monday, for the first time. I dine at a neigh- 
bour's, next door. As soon as I can go so far, eve^i in a coach, my first 
visit shall be to you. Write me when you leave town, and immediately 
when you return : and 1 earnestly pray your stay may be short. You 
can't imagine how miserable you made me when you hinted to mc not 
to write. Farewell. 

SVLVANDliR. 



^ 



W 



^ 





THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



:^tq 



3^7 



No. LXXXIII. 
TO MR. RICHARD BROWN, 

IKVIN'K. 

[Richard Brown is the " very noble character, ijut hapless son oS misfortune," 
lo whom Burns refers in his memoir as havinj^ had a great influence on his youth.] 

My dear Sir, Edinburgh, ^oth Dec, 1787. 

1 have met with few things in life which have given nic more 
pleasure than Fortune\s kindness to you since those days in which we 
met in the vale of misery ; as I can honestly say, that I never knew a man 
who more truly deserved it, or to whom my heart more truly wished it. I 
have l)een much indebted since that time to your story and sentiment for 
steeling my mind against evils, of which I have had a pretty decent share. 
My Will-o'-wisp fate vou know : do you recollect a Sunday we spent to- 
gether in Eglinton Woods? You told me, on my repeating some verses 
to you, that you wondered I could resist the temptation of sending verses 
of such merit to a magazine. It was from this remark I derived that idea 
of my own pieces which encouraged me to endeavour at the character 
of a poet. I am happy to hear that you will be two or three months at 
home. As soon as a bruised limb will permit me, I shall return to Ayr- 
shire, and we shall meet; "and faith I hope we'll not sit dumb, nor yet 
cast out ! " 

I have much to tell you "of men, their manners, and their ways;" jjer- 
haps a little of the other sex. Apropos, I beg to be remembered to Mrs. 
Brown. There, I doubt not, my dear friend, but you have found sub- 
stantial happiness. I e.xpect to find you something of an altered, but not 
a different man : the wild, bold, generous young fellow composed into the 
steady affectionate husl)and, the fond and careful parent. For me, I am 
just the same Will-o"-wisp being I used to be. About the first and fourth 
([uarters of the moon. 1 generally set in for the trade wind of wisdom ; 
but about the full and change, I am the luckless victim of mad tor- 
nadoes, which blow me into chaos. All-mighty love still reigns and revels 
in my bosom ; and I am at this moment ready to hang myself for a young 
Edinburgh widow, who has wit and wisdom more murderously fatal 
than the assassinating stiletto of the Sicilian bandit, or the poi.soned arrow 
of the savage African. My Highland dirk, that used to hang beside my 
crutches, I have gravely removed into a neighbouring closet, the key of 
which I cannot command, in case of spring-tide paroxysms. You may 
guess of her wit by the following verses which she se"t me the other 
day. . . . . ' 

My best compliments to our triend Allan. Adieu I 

.. B 



%im 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. LXXXIV. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Mrs. M'Lehose, as is evident from the allusions in lUirns's letters, repeatedly 
sent him verses of her own eomposition. The lines referred to in the follovvinj^ 
letter will give a fair idea of her poetical gifts. 

" Talk not of Love— it gives mc pain. 
For Love has been my foe : 
He bound iko in an iron chain, 
'Vvid plunged me deep in woe. 

" But Friendship's pure and lasting joys 
My heart was form'd to prove — 
The worthy object be of those, 
But never talk of Love ! 

" The hand of Friendship I accept — 
May Honour be our guard! 
Virtue our intercourse direct, 
Her smiles our dear reward."] 

{After New Yvnr\ day, 1788.J 

You are right, my dear Clarinda : a friendly correspondence goes for 
nothing, except one write their undisguised sentiments. Yours please me 
lor their intrinsic merit, as well as because they are yours, whicli, I assure 
\ ou, is to me a high recommendation. Your religious sentiments, Madam, 
I revere. If you have, on some suspicious evidence, from some lying 
oracle learned that 1 despise or ridicule so sacredly important a matter as 
real religion, you have, my Clarinda, much misconstrued your friend; — 
•I am not mad, most noble Festus ! " Have you ever met a perfect 
character? Do we not sometimes rather exchange faults than get rid of 
them? For instance, I am perhaps tired with and shocked at a life too 
ranch the i)rey of giddy inconsistencies and thoughtless follies; by degrees 
1 grow sober, prudent, and statedly pious — I say statedly, because the 
most unaffected devotion is not at all inconsistent with my first character — • 
I join the world in congratulating myself on the happy change. But let 
me pry more narrowly into this affair. Have I, at bottom, anything of a 
secret pride in these endowments and emendations? Have I nothing of a 
rresi^yterian sourness, a hypocritical severity, when I survey my less regu- 
lar neighbours? In a word, have I missed all those nameless and number- 
less moditications of indistinct selfishness, which are so near our own eyes, 
we can scarcely bring them within the sphere of our vision, and which 
the known spotless cambric of our character hides from tlie ordinary 
observer? , 

My definition of worth is short: truth and humanity respecting our 
fellow-creatures ; reverence and humility in the presence of that Being. 
my Creator and Preserver, and who, 1 have every reason to believe, will 
one day l)e my Judge. The first part f)f my definition is the creature of 
unbiassed instinct : tlie last is the child of after reflection. Where 1 
found these two essentials, I would gently note, and slightl)' mention, 



% 



'^ 



a=^: : u 




^ 



yy/A iJirri'iKs of burns. 36c 

WW attendant Haws —flaws, the marks, the rnnsequenres of liuniaii 
nature. 

I can easily enter into the subUme pleasures that your stron<( ima<;ination 
and keen sensi;)iiity must derive from rehj^ion, particularly if a little in 
the shade of misfortune ; but I own I cannot, without a marked grudge, 
sec Heaven totally engross so amiable, so charming a woman, as my 
friend Clarinda ; and should be very well pleased at a circii instance that 
would put it in the power of somebody (happy somebody !) to divide her 
attention, with all the delicacy and tenderness of an earthly attachment. 

You will not easily persuade me that you have not a grammatical 
knowledge of the I'^nglisli language. So far from being inaccurate, 
vou are elegant beyond any woman of my acquaintance, except one, 
wiiom I wish you knew. 

Your last verses to me have so delighted me. that 1 have got an exxellent 
old Scots air that suits the measure, and you shall sec them in print in the 
Scots Musical Miisemn, a work publishing by a friend of mine in this 
town. I want four stanzas; you gave me but three, and owo. of them 
alluded to an expression in my former letter; so 1 have taken your two 
I'.rst verses, with a slight alteration in the second, and have added a 
third ; but you must hel]:) me to a fourth. Here they are : the latter half 
of the first stanza would have been worthy of Sappho ; 1 am in rapture? 
with it. 

'■ Talk 11(11 iif l-ove, it gives me pain, 
l'"i)r I -(JVC lias been my foe: 
lie bound inc with an iron chain, 
And sunk mc deep in woe. 

" But Friendship's pure and lasting joys 
My heart was form'd to prove : 
There, welcome, win and wear the prize, 
But never talk of love." 

Your friendship much can make mc blest, 
O why that bliss destroy? 
[only] 
Why urge the odious one request, 
Iwilll 
You know 1 must deny? 

The alteration in the second stanza is no improvement, but there was a 
slight inaccuracy in your rhyme. The third I only offer to yoiu- choice, 
and have left two words for your determination. The air is '* The Banks 
of Spey," and is most beautiful. 

To-morrow evening 1 intend taking a chair, and ])aying a visit at Park 
Place to a much-valued old friend. If I could be sure of finding you at 
iiome (and 1 will send one of the chairmen to call), 1 would spend from 
li\c to si.\ o'clock with you, as I go past. I cannot (lo mo':e at this time, 
as I have something on my hand that hurries me much. I propose giving 

you the first call, my old friend the second, and Miss , as I return 

home. Do not break any engagement for me, as I will s])end another 
evening with you at any rate before I leave town. 

Do not tell me that you are pleased when your friends inform you of 
your faults. 1 am ignorant what tlu-y are: but 1 am sure they mus' 




370 THE LETTERS OF BURXS. 




M 



be such evanescent trifles, compared with your personal and mental 
accomplishments, that 1 would despise the ungenerous narrow soul who 
would notice any shadow of imperfections you may seem to have any 
other way than in the most delicate agreeable raillery. Coarse minds are 
not aware how mucii they injure the keenly-feeling tie of bosom-friendshi]). 
when, in their foolish officiousness, they mention what nobody cares for 
recollecting. People of nice .sensibility and generous minds have a certain 
intrinsic dignity, that fires at being trifled with, or lowered, or even too 
nearly approached. 

You need make no apology for long letters: 1 am even with you. 
iVIany happy new-years to you, charming Clarinda! 1 can't dissemble, 
were it to shun perdition. He who sees you as 1 have done, and does 
not love you, deserves to be damned for his stupidity ! He who loves 
you, and would injure you, deserves to be doubly damned for his villanyl 
Adieu. 

SVLVANDER. 

i'.S. — What would you think of this for a fourth stanza? 

Your thought, if love must harbor there. 

Conceal it in that thought, 
Nor cause nic from my bosom tear, 

The very friend I sought. 



No. LXXXV. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Refererence is here made to the second interview between liurns and Mrs. 
M'Lehose; along with the letter he sent his autobiography.] 

Some days, some nights, nay, some hours ^ like the " ten righteous 
persons in Sodom," save the rest of the vapid, tiresome, miserable montlis 
and years of life. One of these hours my dear Clarinda blest me with 
yesternight. 

" One well-spent hour, 

In such a tender circumstance for friends, 

Is better than an age of common time ! " — Thomson. 

My favourite feature in Milton's Satan is his manly fortitude in support- 
ing what cannot be remedied — in short, the wild broken fragments of a 
noble exalted mind in ruins. I meant no more by saying he was a 
favourite hero of mine. 

I mentioned to you my letter to Dr. Moore, giving an account of my 
life : it is truth, every word of it, and will give you a just idea of the maai 
whom you have honoured with your friendship. I am afraid you will 
hardly l)e al)le to make sense of so torn a piece. Your verses I shall muse 
(Ml, (leliciouslv, as I gaze on your image in my mind's eye, in my heart's 
core : they will be in time enough tor a week to come. 1 am truly happy 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



37^ 



your headache is better. Oh. liow can pain or evil he so fhirinLi'ly unleei- 
ing, cruelly .savage as to wound so noble a mind, so lovely a torni ! 

My little fellow is all \w\ namesake. Write me soon. My every, 
strongest good wishes attend you, Clarinda ! 

SVLVANDER. 




I know not what I have written, 1 am pestered with people around me. 



No. LXXXVI. 



TO CL.VRINDA. 



[A tender rebuke from ("larinda al^out his want of religion drew frcjm him this 
reply.] 

Tuesday Night {Jan. 8?]. 

I AM delighted, charming Clarinda, with your honest enthusiasm for 
religion. Those of either sex, but particularly the female, who are luke- 
warm in that most important of all things, " O my soul, come not thou 
into their secrets !" I feel myself deeply interested' in your good opinion, 
and will lay before you the outlines of my belief. He who is our Author 
and Preserver, and will one day be our Judge, must be (not for His sake in 
the way of duty, but from the native impulse of our hearts) the object of 
our reverential awe and grateful adoration : He is almighty and all- 
bounteous, we are weak and dependent; hence prayer and every other 

sort of devotion. " He is not willing that any should perish, but that 

all should come to everlasting life ; '' consequently it must be in every 
one's power to embrace His ofler of " everlasting life ; " otherwise He could 
not, injustice, condemn those who did not. A mind pervaded, actuated, 
and governed by purity, truth, and charity, though it does not merit 
heaven, yet is an absolutely necessary prerequisite, without which heaven 
can neither be obtained nor enjoyed; and, by Divine promise, .such a mind 
shall never fail of attaining "everlasting life:" hence the impure, the 
deceiving, and the uncharitable e.xtrude themselves from eternal bliss, b)- 
their unfitness for enjoying it. The Supreme Being has put the immediate 
administration of all this, for wise and good ends known to Himself, into 
the hands of Jesus Christ — a great personage, whose relation to Him we 
cannot comprehend, but whose relation to us is [that of] a guide and 
Saviour; and who, except for our own obstinacy and misconduct, will 
bring us all through various ways, and by various means, to bliss at last. 

These are my tenets, my lovely friend; and which, 1 think, cannot be 
well disputed. My creed is pretty nearly expressed in the last clause of 
Jamie Deans's grace, an honest weaver in Ayrshire : " Lord, grant that we 
may lead a gude life ! for a gude life makes a gude end ; at least it hel])s 
weel." 

I am flattered by the entertainment vou tell me you have found in my 
packet. You see me as 1 have been, you know me as 1 am. and may 
guess at what I am likelv to be. I too mav sav. " Talk not of love," Sac, 




372 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

for indeed he has "plunged me deep in woe ! " Not that I ever saw a 
woman who pleased imexceptionabiy, as ni}- Clarinda elegantly says, "in 
the companion, the friend, and the mistress." One indeed I could except 
— one, before passion threw its mists over my discernment, I knew the 
first of women ! Her name is indelibly written in my heart's core — but I 
dare not look in on it — a degree of agony would be the consequence. 
Oh, thou perfidious, cruel, mischief-making demon, who presidest over 
that frantic passion — thou mayst, thou dost poison my peace, but thou 
shalt not taint my honour — I would not, for a single moment, give an 
asylum to the most distant imagination, that would shadow the faintest 
outline of a selfish gratification, at the expense of her whose happiness is 

twisted with the threads of my existence. May she be as happy as she 

deserves ! And if my tenderest, faithfulest friendship can add to her 
bliss, I shall at least have one solid mine of enjoyment in my bosom. 
DonH guess at these ravings ! 

I watched at our front window to-day, but was disappointed. ^ It has 
been a day of disappointments. I am just risen from a two hours' bout 
after supper, with silly or sordid souls, who could relish nothing in common 

with me but the port. One 'Tis now " witching time of night;"' 

and whatever is out of joint in the foregoing scrawl, impute it to enchant- 
ments and spells ; for I can't look over it, but will seal it up directly, as I 
don't care for to-morrow's criticisms on it. 

You are by this time fast asleep, Clarinda; may good angels attend and 
guard you as constantly as my good wishes do ! 

" Beauty, which, whether waking or asleep. 
Shot forth pecuhar graces." 

John Milton, I wish thy soul better rest than 1 expect on my pillow 
to-night. Oh for a little of the cart-horse part of human nature ! Good- 
night, my dearest Clarinda ! 

Sylvander. 

No. I.XX.WII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Clarinda writes to say she cannot imagine w ho is the fair one he alludes to in 
his last epistle. She first thought of his Jean, though uncertain whether she has 
his " tenderest, faithfulest friendship." She cannot understand that bonnie lassie — 
refusing him after such proofs of love; and admires him for his continued fondness 
towards her. She iiromises again to give him a nod at his window.] 

Thursday Noon \_yan. io''j. 

1 AM certain I saw you, Clarinda ; but you don't look to the proper 
story for a poet's lodging, 

" Where Speculation roosted near the sky." 

I could almost have thrown myself over for very vexation. Why didn't 
you look higher? It has spoilt my peace for this day. To be so near my 

' Mrs. M'Lehose had promi.sed to pass through his Square about two in the afternoon^ and 
give him a nod if he were at the window nf his room and she could discover it. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 373 



charming Clarinda ; to miss her look while it was searching for me ! I 
am sure the soul is capable of disease, for mine has convulsed itself into 
an inflammatory fever. I am sorry for your little boy : do let me know 
to-morrow how he is. 

You have converted me, Clarinda (I shall love that name while I live : 
there is heavenly music in it!). Booth and Amelia I know well. Your 
sentiments on tkat subject, as they are on every subject, are just and noble. 
"To be feelingly alive to kindness and to unkindness" is a charming 
female character. 

What I said in my last letter, the powers of fuddling sociality only know 
for me. By yours, I understand my good star has been partly in my 
horizon when I got wild in my reveries. Had that evil planet, which has 
almost all my life shed its baleful rays on my devoted head, been as usual 
in its zenith, I had certainly blabbed something that would have pointed 
out to you the dear object of my tenderest friendship, and, in spite of me, 
something more. Had that fatal information escaped me, and it was 
merely chance or kind stars that it did not, I had been undone. You 
would never have written me, except, perhaps, once more. Oh, I could 
curse circumstances ! and the coarse tie of human laws which keeps fast 
what common sense would loose, and which bars that happiness itself 
cannot give — happiness which otherwise love and honour would warrant ! 
But hold — I shall make no more " hairbreadth 'scapes." 

My friendship, Clarinda, is a life-rent business. My likings are both 
strong and eternal. I told you I had but one male friend : I have but two 
female. I should have a third, but she is surrounded by the blandish- 
ments of flattery and courtship. Her I register in my heart's core by 
Peggy Chalmers : Miss Nimmo can tell you how divine she is. She is 
worthy of a place in the same bosom with my Clarinda. That is the 
highest compliment I can pay her. Farewell, Clarinda ! Remember 

Sylvander. 



No. LXXXVIII. 
TO CLARINDA. 

Saturday Morning. 

Your thoughts on religion, Clarinda, shall be welcome. You may 
j^erhaps distrust me when 1 say His also my favourite topic ; but mine is 
the religion of the bosom. I hate the very idea of a controversial di- 
vinity ; as I firmly believe, that every honest, uprigTit man, of whatever 
sect, will be accepted of the Deity. If your verses, as you seem to hint, 
contain censure, except you want an occasion to break with me, don't send 
them. I have a little infirmity in my disposition, that where I fondly love, 
or liiijhly esteem, I cannot bear reproach. 

•• Reverence thyself" is a sacred maxim, and I wish to cherish it. I 
think I told you Lord Bolingbroke's saying to Swift — " Adieu, dear Swift, 
with all thy faults, I love thee entirely ; make an effort to love me with all 
mine." A glorious sentiment, and without which there can be no friend- 




«^ 



374 THE LETTERS tF BURNS. 

ship. I do highly, very highly esteem you indeed, Clarinda — you merit 
it all. Perhaps, too, I scorn dissimulation. I could fondly love you : 
judge, then, what a maddening sting your reproach would be. "Oh I 
have sins to Heaven, but none to yote!^'' With what pleasure would I 
meet you to-day, but I cannot walk to meet the Fly. I hope to be able 
to see you on /ooi, about the middle of next week. 

I am interrupted — perhaps you are not sorry for it, you will tell me — but 
I won't anticipate blame. Oh Clarinda! did you know how dear to me is 
your look' of kindness, your smile of approbation, you would not, either in 
prose or verse, risk a censorious remark. 



" Curst be the verse, how 
That tends to make one i 



Sylvander. 



No. LXXXIX. 

TO CLARINDA. 

You talk of weeping, Clarinda : some involuntary drops wet your lines 
as I read them. Offend me, my dearest angel! You cannot offend me — 
you never offended me. If you had ever given me the least shadow of 
offence, so pardon me, my God, as I forgive Clarinda. I have read yours 
again ; it has blotted my paper. Though I find your letter has agitated 
me into a violent headache, I shall take a chair and be with you about 
eight. A friend is to be with us at tea, on my account, which hinders me 
from coming sooner. Forgive, my dearest Clarinda, my unguarded ex- 
pressions. For Heaven's sake, forgive me, or I shall never be able to 
bear my own mind. 

Your unhappy 

Sylvander. 



No. XC. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[After a third interview Clarinda owns her high appreciation of Burns's char- 
acter : "Our last interview has raised you very high in mine [esteem]. I have 
met with few, indeed, of your sex who understood delicacy in such circumstances.'* 
Still she fears she may be the victim of her sensibility.] 

Monday Even, ii o'clock. 

Why have I not heard from you, Clarinda? To-day I expected it; and 
before supper, when a letter to me was announced, my heart danced with 
rapture : but behold, it was some fool, who had taken it into his head to 
turn poet, and made me an offering of the firstfruits of his nonsense. "It 
is not poetry, but prose run mad." Did I ever repeat to you an epigram I 
made on a Mr. Elphinstone, who has given a translation of Martial, a 



^ 



THE LE TTEKS OF B URNS. 375 

famous Latin poet? The poetry of Elphinstone can only equal his prose- 
notes. I was sitting in a merchant's shop of my acquaintance, waiting 
somebody ; he put Elphinstone into my hand, and asked my opinion of 
it ; 1 begged leave to write it on a blank leaf, which I did — 



TO .MR. ELPHINSTONE, ETC. 

Oh thou, whom poesy abhors! 
Whom prose has turned out of doors! 
Heard'st thou yon groan? — proceed no further! 
'Twas laurelled Martial calling murther! 

I am determined to see you. if at all possible, on Saturday evening. 
Next week I must sing — 

The night is my departing night. 

The morn's the day I maun awa'; 
There's neither friend nor foe o' mine 

But wishes that I were awa' ! 
What I hae done for lack o' wit, 

I never, never can reca' ; 
I hope ye're a' my friends as yet — 

Gude night, and joy be wi' you a' ! 

If 1 could see you sooner, I would be so much the happier; but I would 
not purchase the dearest gratification on earth, if it must be at your 
expense in worldly censure, far less inward peace. 

I shall certainly be ashamed of thus scrawling whole sheets of inco- 
herence. The only unity (a sad word with poets and critics !) in my ideas 
is Clarinda. There my heart " reigns and revels ! " 

•' What art thou. Love? whence are those charms, 

That thus thou bear'st an universal rule? 
For thee the soldier quits his arms, 

The king turns slave, the wise man fool. 
In vain we chase thee from the field. 

And with cool thoughts resist thy yoke : 
Ne-tt tide of blood, alas, we yield, 

And all tho.se high resolves are broke ! " 

1 like to have quotations for every occasion. They give one's ideas so 
pat, and save one the trouble of finding expression adequate to one's 
feelings, I think it is one of the greatest pleasures attending a poetic 
genius, that we can give our woes, cares, joys, loves, &c., an embodied 
fonn in verse, which to me is ever immediate ease. Goldsmith says finely 
of his Muse — 

" Thou source of all my bliss and all my woe. 
Thou found'st me poor at first, and keep'st me so." 

My limb has been so well to-day, that 1 have gone up and down stairs 
often without my staff. To-morrow I hope to walk once again on my 
own legs to dinner. It is only next street. Adieu ! 

Sylvander. 





-J^ 



k 



370 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




No. XCI. 

TO CLARINDA. 

Tuesday Evening [Jan. 15?]. 

That you have faults, my Clarinda, I never doubted ; but I knew not 
where they existed, and Saturday night made me more in the dark than 
ever. Oh Clarinda ! why will you wound my soul by hinting that last 
night must have lessened ni}- opinion of you? True, I was "behind the 
scenes " with you : but what did I see ? A bosom glowing with honour 
and benevolence ; a mind ennobled by genius, informed and refined b\- 
education and reflection, and exalted by native religion, genuine as in the 
climes of heaven ; a heart formed for all the glorious meltings of friend- 
ship, love, and pity. These I saw : I saw the noblest immortal soul 
creation ever showed me. 

I looked long, my dear Clarinda, for your letter ; and am vexed that 
you are complaining. I have not caught you so far wrong as in your 
idea, that the commerce you have with ime friend hurts you it you cannot 
tell every tittle of it to another. Why have so injurious a suspicion of a 
good God, Clarinda, as to think that Friendship and Love, on the sacred 
inviolate principles of Truth, Honour, and Religion, can be anything else 
than an object of His divine approbation? 

I have mentioned in some of my former scrawls, Saturday evening next. 
Do allow me to wait on you that evening. Oh, my angel ! how soon must 
we part! and when can we meet again? I look forward on the horrid 
interval with tearful eyes. What have I lost by not knowing you sooner ! 
I fear, I fear my acquaintaince with you is too short, to make that lasting 
imjDression on your heart I could wish. 

Sylvander. 



No. XCII. 
TO CLARINDA. 

Sunday Night [Jan. 20?]. 

The impertinence of fools has joined with a return of an old indisposi- 
tion to make me good for nothing to-day. The paper has lain before me 
all this evening to write to my dear Clarinda ; but 

" Fools rush'd on fools, as waves succeed to waves." 

I cursed them in my soul : they sacrilegiously disturb my meditations 
on her who holds my heart. What a creature is man I A little alarm last 
night and to-day that I am mortal, has made such a revolution in my 
spirits ! there is no philosophy, no divinity, comes half so home to the 
mind. I have no idea of the courage that braves Heaven. 'Tis the wild 
ravings of an imaginary hero in Bedlam. I can no more, Clarinda; I can 
scarce hold up my head ; but I am happy you donH know it, you would 
be so uneasy. 

Sylvander. 




-^ 



f? 



r//£ LETTERS OF BUKXS. 



377 



Monday Morning. 

I am, my lovely friend, much better this morning, on the whole; but I 
have a horrid languor on my spirits — 

" Sick of the world and all its joy, 
My soul in pining sadness mourns : 
Dark scenes of woe my mind employ, 
The past and present in their turns." 

Have you ever met with a saying of the great and likewise good Mr. Locke, 
author of the famous Essay on the Hitman C/nderstanding ^ He wrote a 
letter to a friend, directing it " Not to be delivered till after my decease."' 
It ended thus — "I know you loved me when living, and will preserve my 
memory now I am dead. All the use to be made of it is — that this life 
affords no solid satisfaction, but in the consciousness of having done well, 
and the hopes of another life. Adieu ! I leave my best wishes with you. 
— J. Locke. " 

Clarinda, may I reckon on your friendship for life? I think I may. 
Thou Almighty Preserver of men ! Thy friendship, which hitherto I have 
too much neglected, to secure it shall all the future days and nights of my 
life be my steady care ! The idea of my Clarinda follows : — 

" Hide it, my heart, within that close disguise. 
Where, mix'd with God's, her loved idea lies." 

But I fear inconstancy, the consequent imperfection of human weakness. 
Shall I meet with a friendship that defies years of absence, and the chances 
and changes of fortune ? Perhaps " such things are. " One honest man I 
have great hopes from, that way ; but who, except a romance writer, would 
think on a love that could promise for life, in spite of distance, absence, 
chance, and change; and that, too, with slender hopes of fiiution? For 
my own part, I can say to myself in both requisitions, " Thou art the 
man ; '" I dare, in cool resolve, I dare declare myself that friend and that 
lover. If womankind is capable of such things, Clarinda is. I trust that 
she is ; and feel I shall be miserable if she is not. There is not one 
virtue which gives worth, or one sentiment which does honour to the sex, 
that she does not possess superior to any woman I ever saw : her exaltecl 
mind, aided a little perhaps by her situation, is, I think, capable of that 
nobly-romantic l»ve-enthusiam. 

May I see you on Wednesday evening, my dear angel? The next Wed- 
nesday again will, I conjecture, be a hated day to us'both. I tremble for 
censorious remarks for your sake ; but in extraordinary cases, ma\- not 
usual and useful precautions be a little dispensed with? Three evenings, 
three swift-winged evenings, with pinions of down, are all the past — I dare 
not calculate the future. I shall call at Miss Nimmo's to-morrow evening: 
'twill be a farewell call. 

I have written out my last sheet of paper, so I am reduced to my last 
half-sheet. What a strange, mysterious faculty is that thing called imagi- 
nation ! We have no ideas almost at all of another world ; but I have often 
amused myself with visionary schemes of what happiness might be en- 
joyed by small alterations — alterations that we can fully enter to [-ivf], in 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



this present state of existence. For instance, suppose you and I just as we 
are at present, the same reasoning powers, sentiments, and even desires; 
the same fond curiosity for knowledge and remarking observation in our 
minds — and imagine our bodies free from pain, and the necessary sup- 
plies for the wants of nature at all times and easily within our reach ; 
imagine further that we were set free from the laws of gravitation which 
bind us to this globe, and could at pleasure fly, without inconvenience, 
through all the yet unconjectured bounds of creation — what a life of bliss 
should we lead in our mutual pursuit of virtue and knowledge, and our 
mutual enjoyment of friendship and love ! 

1 see you laughing at my fairy fancies, and calling me a voluptuous 
Mahometan ; but 1 am certain I should be a happy creature, beyond any- 
thing we call bliss here below ; nay, it would be a paradise congenial to 
you too. Don't' you see us hand in hand, or rather my arm about your 
lovely waist, making our remarks on Sirius, the nearest of the lixed stars ; 
or surveying a comet flaming innoxious by us, as we just now would 
mark the passing pomp of a travelling monarch ; or in a shady bower of 
Mercury or Venus, dedicating the hour to love and mutual converse, rely- 
ing honour, and revelling endearment — while the most exalted strains of 
poesy and harmony would be the ready, spontaneous language of our 
souls ? Devotion is the favourite employment of your heart, so is it of mine : 
what incentives then to, and powers for reverence, gratitude, faith, and 
hope, in all the fervours of adoration and praise to that Being whose un- 
searchable wisdom, power, and goodness, so pervaded, so inspired every 
sense and feeling ! By this time, I daresay, you will be blessing the neglect 
of the maid that leaves me destitute of paper. 

Sylvander. 



No. XCIII. 




T(^ MISS C-HALMERS. 

Now for that wayward unfortunate thing, myself. I have broke meas- 
ures with Creech, and last week I wrote him a frosty, keen letter. He 
replied in terms of chastisement, and promised me upon his honour that I 
should have the account on Monday : but this is Tuesday, and yet I have 
not heard a word from him. God have mercy on me ! a poor damned, 
incautious, duped, unfortunate fool ! The sport, the miserable victim of 
rebellious pride, hypochondriac imagination, agonizing sensibility, and 
bedlam passions. 

'■I wish that I were dead, but Tm no' like to die!" I had lately "a 
hair-breadth \scape in tlV imminent deadly breach " of love, too. Thank 
my stars, 1 got oft" heart-whole, " waur fleyed (worse frightened) than 
hurt." — Interruption. 

I have this moment got a hint ... I fear I am something like — undone 
— but I hope for the best. Come, stubborn pride, and unshrinking reso- 
lution : accompany me through this, to me, miserable world ! You must 




-t£J 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 379 

not desert me. Vour friendship I think I can count on, though I should 
date my letters from a marching regiment. Early in life, and all my life, 
I reckoned on a recruiting drum as my forlorn-hope. Seriously, though, 
life presents me with but a melancholy path : but — my limb will soon be 
sound, and I shall struggle on. — R. B. 



No. XCIV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, January 21, .788. 

After six weeks' confinement, 1 am beginning to walk across the room. 
Tliey have been six horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made me unfit 
to read, write, or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one could resign life as an officer 
resigns a commission ; for I would not take in any poor ignorant wretch, 
by selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private, and, God knows, a mis- 
erable soldier enough ; now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet 
— a little more conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do want bravery for the warfare 
of life, I could wish, like some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude or 
cunning to dissemble or conceal my cowardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will be, I suppose, about the 
middle of next week, I leave Edinburgh ; and soon after I shall pay my 
grateful duty at Dunlop House. — R. B. 



No. XCV. 
TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTRY. 

[It had long been a favourite project with Burns to get a place in the Excise. 
Through the influence of the friends appealed to in the following letters, his name 
was placed on the list of candidates to be appointed as vacancies occurred.] 

Sir, 

When 1 had the honour of being introduced to you at Athole House. 
I did not so soon think of asking a favour of you. When Lear, in Shak- 
speare, asked old Kent why he wished to be in his service, he answers : 
" Because you have that in your face which I would fain call master." For 
some such reason, Sir, do I now solicit your patronage. \ou know, I 
dare say, of an application I lately made to your Board to be admitted an 
officer of Excise. I have, accorcling to form, been examined by a super- 
visor, and to-day I gave in his certificate, with a request for an' order for 
instructions. In this affair, if I succeed, I am afraid I shall but too mucli 
need a patronizing friend. Propriety of conduct as a man, and fidelity 




^ 



380 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



and attention as an officer, I dare engage for ; but with anything like busi- 
ness, except manual labour, I am totally unacquainted. 

I had intended to have closed my late appearance on the stage of life 
in the character of a country farmer ; but after discharging some filial and 
fraternal claims, I find I could only fight for existence in that miserable 
manner which 1 have lived to see throw a venerable parent into the jaws 
of a jail ; whence death, the poor man's last and often best friend, rescued 
him. 

I know, Sir, that to need your goodness is to have a claim on it ; may I, 
therefore, beg your patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be ap- 
pointed to a division — where, by the help of rigid economy, I will try to 
support that independence so dear to my soul, but which has been too 
often so distant from my situation? — R. B. 



TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

[This appeal vvus not successful in obtaining Lord Glencairn's patronage in the 
matter.] 

My Lord, 

I know your lordship will disapprove of my ideas in a request I am 
going to make to you ; but I have weighed, long and seriously weighed, 
my situation, my hopes, and turn of mind, and am fully fixed to my scheme 
if I can possibly effectuate it. I wish to get into the Excise : I am told 
that your lordship's interest will easily procure me the grant from the com- 
missioners ; and your lordship's patronage and goodness, which have 
already rescued me from obscurity, wretchedness, and exile, enbolden me 
to ask that interest. You have likewise put it in my power to save the little 
tie of home that sheltered an aged mother, two brothers, and three sisters, 
from destruction. There, my lord, you have bound me over to the highest 
gratitude. 

My brother's farm is but a wretched lease, but I think he will probably 
weather out the remaining seven years of it ; and after the assistance 
which I have given, and will give him, to keep the family together, I think, 
by my guess, I shall have rather better than two hundred pounds ; and 
instead of seeking, what is almost impossible at present to find, a farm 
that I can certainly live by, with so small a stock, I shall lodge this sum in 
a banking-house, a sacred deposit, excepting only the calls of uncommon 
distress or necessitous old age. 

These, my lord, are my views : I have resolved from the maturest delib- 
eration ; and now I am fixed. I shall leave no stone unturned to carry my 
resolve into execution. Your lordship's patronage is the strength of my 
liopes : nor have I yet applied to anybody else. Indeed my heart sinks 
within me at the idea of applying to any other of the great who have 
honoured me with their countenance. I am ill-qualified to dog the heels 



"W^ 



7^- 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




of greatness with the impertinence of sohcitation, and tremble nearly as 
much at the thought of the cold promise as the cold denial ; but to your 
lordship I have not only the honor, the comfort, but the pleasure of being 
Your lordship's much and deeply indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. XCVII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[The next letter to Clarinda was written on the day following their fourth 
meeting.] 

Thursday Montiiig [jamiary 24?]. 

" Unlavish Wisdom never works in vain." 

1 have been tasking my reason, Clarinda, why a woman, who, for native 
genius, poignant wit, strength of mind, generous sincerity of soul, and the 
sweetest female tenderness, is without a peer, and whose personal charms 
have few. very, very few parallels among her sex ; why, or how she should 
fall to the blessed lot of a poor hairum-scairum poet whom Fortune had 
kept for her particular use, to wreak her temper on whenever she was in 
ill-humour. One time I conjectured, that as Fortune is the most capricious 
jade ever known, she may have taken, not a fit of remorse, but a paroxysm 
of whim, to raise the poor devil out of the mire, where he had so often and 
so conveniently served her as a stepping-stone, and given him the most 
glorious boon she ever had in her gift, merely for the maggot's sake, to see 
how his fool head and his fool heart will bear it. At other times I was 
vain enough to think that Nature, who has a great deal to sav with Fortune, 
had given the cocjuettish goddess some such hint as, " Here is a paragon of 
female excellence, whose equal, in all my foniier compositions, I never 
was lucky enough to hit on, and despair of ever doing so again ; you have 
cast her rather in the shades of life ; there is a certain poet of my making; 
among your frolics it would not be amiss to attach him to this masterpiece 
of my hand, to give her that immortality among mankind, which no 
woman of any age ever more deserved, and which few rhvmsters of thb 
age are better able to confer.*' 

Eveniiig, 9 o'clock, 

I am here, absolutely so unfit to finish my letter — prettv hearty after a 
bowl, which has been constantly plied since dinner till this moment. I 
have been with Mr. Schetki, the musician, and he has set the song finely. 
I have no distinct ideas of anything, but that 1 have drunk your healtii 
twice to-night, and that you are all my soid holds dear in this world. 

Sylvander 





^h£ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. XCVIII. 
TO CLARINDA. 



[Mrs. M'Lehose's letter after the last interview shows she was well aware of the 
delicate, not to say dangerous footing of her acquaintance with the Poet : " I am 
neither well nor happy to-day : my heart reproaches me for last night. If you 
wish Clarinda to regain her peace, determine against everything but what the 
strictest delicacy warrants. . . . Do not he displeased when 1 tell you I wish our 
parting was over. At a distance, we shall retain the same heartfelt affection and 
interestedness in each other's concerns; but absence will mellow and restrain 
those violent heart agitations which, if continued much longer, would unhinge my 
very soul, and render me unfit for the duties of life."] 

^Friday, February i?J 

Clarinda, my life, 3'ou have wounded my soul. Can 1 think of your 
being unhappy, even though it be not described in your pathetic elegance 
of language, without being miserable? Clarinda, can I bear to be told from 
you that "you will not see me to-morrow night — that you wish the hour 
of parting were come ? ^' Do not let us impose on ourselves by sounds. 
. . . Why, my love, talk to me in such strong terms ; every word of 
which cuts me to the very soul ? You know, a hint, the slightest significa- 
tion of your wish, is to me a sacred command. 

Be reconciled, my angel, to your God, yourself, and me ; and I pledge 
you Sylvander's honour — an oath I daresay you will trust without reserve — 
that you shall never more have reason to complain of his conduct. Now, 
my love, do not wound our next meeting with any averted looks. . . . 
I have marked the line of conduct — a line, I know, exactly to your taste 
— and which I will inviolably keep ; but do not show you the least inclination 
to make boundaries. Seeming distrust, where you know you may confide, 
is a cruel sin against sensibility. 

" Delicacy, you know, it was which won me to you at once : take care 
that you do not loosen the clearest, most sacred tie that unites us.'" 
Clarinda, I would not have stung your soul — I would not have bruised 
yo7ir spirit, as that harsh, crucifying "Take care," did mine; no, not to 
have gained heaven ! Let me again appeal to your dear self, if Sylvander. 
even when he seemingly half transgressed the laws of decorum, if he did 
not show more chastised, trembling, faltering delicacy, than the many of 
the world do in keeping these laws"? 

Love and Sensibility, ye have conspired against my peace ! I love to 
madness, and I feel to torture ! Clarinda, how can I forgive myself 
that I have ever touched a single chord in your bosom with pa'in ! Would 
I do it willingly? Would any consideration, any gratification make me do 
so? Oh, diet you love like me, you would not, you could not, deny or put 
off a meeting with the man who adores you ; who would die a thousand 
deaths before he would injure you ; and who must soon bid you a long 
farewell ! 

1 had proposed bringing my bosom ft lend, Mr. Ainslie, to-morrow 
evening, at his strong request, to see you ; ns he has only time to stay 



w 




A 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




with us about ten minutes, for an engagement. But I shall hear from you ; 
this afternoon, for mercy's sake ! — for, till I hear from you, I am wretched. 
Oh, Clarinda, the tie that binds me to thee is intwisted, incorporated with 
my dearest tlireads of life ! 

Sylvander. 



No. XCIX. 

TO CLARINDA. 

I WAS on the way, my love, to meet you (I never do things by halves) 
when I got your card. Mr. Ainslie goes out of town to-morrow morning 
to see a brother of his, who is ne\yly arrived from France. I am deter- 
mined that he and I shall call on you together. So look you, lest I should 
never see to-morrow, we will call on you to-night. Mary^ and you may 
put oft" tea till about seven, at which time, in the Galloway phrase, " an the 
beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale," expect the humblest of 
your humble servants, and his dearest friend. We only propose staying 
half an hour — "for ought we ken." I could suffer the lash of misery 
eleven months in the year, were the twelfth to be composed of hours like 
yesternight. You are the soul of my enjoyment — all ^Ise is of the stuft" of 
stocks and stones. 

Sylvander. 



No. C. 
TO CLARINDA. 

Sunday Noon. 

I HAVE almost given up the Excise idea. I have been just now to wait 

on a great person. Miss 's friend . Why will great people not 

only deafen us with the din of their equipage, and dazzle us with their fas- 
tidious pomp, but they must also be so very dictatorily wise? I have been 
questioned like a child about my matters, and blamed and schooled for my 
inscription on the Stirling window. Come, Clarinda! — " Come, curse me 
Jacob ; come, defy me Israel ! " 

Sunday Night. 

I have been with Miss Nimmo. She is indeed " a good soul," as my 
Clarinda finely says, She has reconciled me, in a good measure, to the 
world with her friendly prattle. 

Schetki has sent me the song, set to a fine air of his composing. I have 
called the song "Clarinda:" I have carried it about in my pocket, and 
hummed it over all day. 

Monday Morning. 

If my prayers have any weight in heaven, this morning looks in on yoi: 
and finds you in the arms of peace, except where it is charmingb 

1 One of Mrs. M'Lehose's friends. 




:t:£. 



^ 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



interrupted by the ardours of devotion. I find so much serenity of mind, 
so much positive pleasure, so much fearless daring toward the world, 
when I warm in devotion, or feel the glorious sensation — a consciousness 
of Almighty friendship — that 1 am sure I shall soon be an honest 
enthusiast. 

" How are thy servants blest, O Lord! 
How sure is their defence! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide, 
Their help Omnipotence! " 

I am, my dear Madam, yours, 

Sylvander, 



No. CI. 

TO CL A RIND A. 

[In her next and several subsequent letters, Clarinda still dwells on Burns's want 
of religious faith. " Sylvander," she says, " I lielieve nothing were a more im- 
practicable task than to make you feel a little of genuine Gospel humility. Believe 
me, I wish not to see you deprived of that noble fire of an exalted mind which 
you eminently possess. Yet a sense of your faults — a feeling sense of them — 
were devoutly to be wished." Another interview preceded the following letter 
from Sylvander.] 

Sunday Morning. 

I HAVE just been before the throne of my God, Clarinda ; according to 
my association of ideas, my sentiments of love and friendship, I next 
devote myself to you. Yesternight I was happy — happiness that the 
world cannot give. I kindle at the recollection ; but it is a flame where 
innocence looks smiling on, and honour stands by, a sacred guard. Your 
heart, your fondest wishes, your dearest tlioughts, these are yours to 
bestow : your person is unapproachable by the laws of your country ; and 
he loves not as I do who would make you miserable. 

You are an angel, Clarinda; you are surely no mortal that " the earth 
owns." To kiss your hand, to live on your smile, is to me far more 
exquisite bliss than the dearest favours that the fairest of the sex, yourself 
excepted, can bestow. 

Sunday Evening. 

You are the constant companion of my thoughts. How wretched is the 
condition of one who is haunted with conscious guilt, and trembling 
under the idea of dreaded vengeance ! and what a placid calm, what a 
charming secret enjoyment it gives, to bosom the kind feelings of friend- 
ship and the formal throes of love ! Out upon the tempest of anger, the 
acrimonious gall of fretful impatience, the sullen frost of louring resent- 
ment, or the corroding poison of withered envy! They eat up the immor- 
tal part of man. If they spent their fury only on the unfortunate objects 
of them, it would be sornething in their favour; but these miserable pas- 
iions, like traitor Iscariot, betray their lord and master. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




Thou Almighty Author of peace, and goodness, and love ! do Thou 
give me the social heart that kindly tastes of every man's cup ! Is it a 
draught of joy ? — warm and open my heart to share it with cordial, un- 
envying rejoicing. Is it the bitter potion of sorrow ? — melt my heart 
with sincerely sympathetic wo. Above all, do Thou give me the manly 
mind that resolutely exemplifies, in life and manners, those sentiments 
which I would wisii to be thought to possess. The friend of my soul ; 
there, may I never deviate from the firmest fidelity and most active 
kindness ! Clarinda, the dear object of my fondest love ; there, may 
the mosf sacred inviolate "honour, the most faithful kindling constancy, 
ever watch and animate my every thought and imagination ! 

Did you ever meet with the following lines spoken of religion — your 
darling topic ? — 

■' 'Tii this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 
'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night; 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, 
When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue; 
'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart. 
Disarms affliction, or repels its dart; 
Within the breast bids purest rapture rise, 
Bids smiling Conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I met with these verses very early in life, and was so delighted with 
them, that I have them by me, copied at school. 
Good-night and sound rest, my dearest Clarinda ! 

Sylvander. 



No. CII. 

TO CLARTNDA. 

[Clariniia's letters grew more passionate as the correspondence draws to a close. 
" Never," she writes, " were there two hearts formed so exactly alike as ours. At 
all events, Sylvander, the storms of life will quickly pass, and ' one unbounded 
spring encircle all.' Love, there, is not a crime. I charge you to meet me there. 
Oh God ! I must lay down my pen." Mr. Robert Chambers says he has heard 
Clarinda, at seventy-five, express the same hope to meet in another sphere the one 
heart that she had ever found herself able entirely to sympathise with, but which 
had been divided from her on earth by such pitiless obstacles.] 

Thursday Night. 

I CANNOT be easy, my Clarinda, while any sentiment respecting me 
in your bosom gives me pain. If there is no man on earth to whom your 
heart and affections are justly due, it may savour of imprudence, but never 
of criminality, to bestow that heart and those affections where you please. 
The Cod of love meant and made those delicious attachments to be 
bestowed on somebody ; and even all the imprudence lies in bestowing 
them on an unworthy object. If this reasoning is conclusive, as it 
certainly is, I must be allowed to " talk of love." 

It is, perhaps, rather wrong to speak highly to a friend of his letter: it 
is apt to lay one under a little restraint in their future letters, and restraint 





THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



is the death of a friendly epistle ; but there is one passage in j'our last 
charming letter, Thomson or Shenstone never exceeded it, nor often 
came up to it. I shall certainly steal it, and set it in some future poetic 
production, and get immortal fame by it. 'Tis when you bid the scenes 
of nature remind me of Clarinda. Can I forget you, Clarinda ? I would 
detest myself as a tasteless, unfeeling, insipid, infamous blockhead. I 
have loved w^omen of ordinary merit, whom I could have loved for ever. 
You are the first, the only une.xceptionable individual of the beauteous sex 
that I ever met with ; and never woman more entirely possessed my soul. 
I know myself, and how far I can depend on passion's swell. It has been 
my peculiar study. 

1 thank you for going to Miers. Urge him. for necessity calls, to have 
it done by the middle of next week : Wednesda}- the latest day. I want 
it for a breast-pin, to wear next my heart. I propose to keep sacred set 
times, to wander in the woods and wilds for meditation on you. Then, 
and only then, your lovely image shall be produced to the day, with a 
reverence akin to devotion. 



To-morrow night shall not be the last, 
stupid, as I supped late yesternight. 



No. cm. 



(iood-night ! I am perfectly 

SVLVANDER. 



TO CLARINDA. 

Saturday Moriihig. 

There is no time, my Clarinda, when the conscious thrilling chords of 
love and friendship give such delight, as in the pensive hours of what our 
favourite Thomson calls "philosophic melancholy." The sportive insects, 
who ])ask in the sunshine of prosperity, or the worms, that luxuriant crawl 
amid their ample wealth of earth; they need no Clarinda — they would 
despise Sylvander, if they dared. The family of Misfortune, a numerous 
group of brothers and sisters ! they need a resting-place to their souls. 
Unnoticed, often condemned by the world — in some degree, perhaps, 
condemned by themselves — they feel the full enjoyment of ardent love, 
delicate, tender endearments, mutual esteem, and mutual reliance. 

In this light I have often admired religion. In proportion as we are 
wrung with grief, or distracted with anxiety, the ideas of a compassionate 
Deity, an Almighty Protector, are doubly dear. 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright; 
'Tis this that gilds the horrors of our night." 

I have been this morning taking a peep through, as Young finely says, 
" the dark postern of time long elapsed ; " and you will easily guess 'twas 
a rueful prospect. What a tissue of thoughtlessness, weakness, and folly! 
My life reminded me of a ruined temple: what strength, what proportion 
^n some parts! — what unsightly gaps, what prostrate ruins in others! I 



THE LETTERS OF BCRNS. 



387 



kneeled clown before the Father of Mercies, and said, " Father, I have 
sinned against Heaven, and in Thy sight, and am no more worthy to be 
called Thy son ! " I rose, eased and strengthened. I despise the super- 
stition of a fiinatic, but I love the religion of a man. " The future," said 
I to myself, " is still before me : there let me 

' On reason build resolve — 
That column of true majesty in man! ' 

1 have difficulties many to encounter," said I; "but they are not abso- 
lutely insuperable : and' where is firmness of mind shown, but in exertion? 
Mere declamation is bombast rant. Besides, wherever I am, or in what- 
ever situation 1 may be, 

' 'Tis nought to me, 

Since God is ever present, ever felt, 
In the void waste as in the city full : 
And where He vital breathes, there must be joy."' 

Satui-day Night, Half after Ten. 

What luxury of bliss 1 was enjoying at this time yesternight! My ever 
dearest Clarinda, you have stolen away my soul : but you have refined, 
you have exalted it : you have given it a stronger sense of virtue, and a 
stronger relish for piety. Clarinda, first of your sex ! if ever I am the 
veriest wretch on earth to forget you — if ever your lovely image is eftaced 
from my soul. 



' May I be lost, no eye t 
And find no earth that'; 



) weep my end, 
base enough to bury 



What trifling silliness is the childish fondness of the every-day children 
of the world ! "Tis the unmeaning toying of the younglings of the fields 
and forests ; but, where sentiment and fancy unite their sweets, where 
taste and delicacy refine, where wit adds the flavour, and good sense gives 
strength and spirit to all, what a delicious draught is the hour of tender 
endearment ! 



No. CIV. 

TO CLARINDA. 

I AM a discontented ghost, a perturbed spirit. 
Clarinda, if you ever forget Sylvander, may you be happy, but he will be 
miserable. 

Oh, what a fool I am in love ! what an extravagant prodigal of affection ! 
Why are your sex called the tender sex, when I never have met with one 
who can repa}' me in passion? They are either not so rich in love as I 
am, or they are niggards where I am lavish. 

O Thou, whose I am, and whose are all my ways ! Thou see'st me 
here, the hapless wreck of tides and tempests in my own bosom : do Thou 
direct to Thyself that ardent love, for which I have so often sought a retun? 
in vain from m\- fellow-creatures ! If Thy goodness has yet such a gift ii' 



TR= 




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388 



r//E LETTERS OF BURNS. 



store for me as an equal return of affection from her who, Thou knowest, 
is dearer to me than Hfe, do Thou bless and hallow our band of love and 
friendship ; watch over us, in all our outgoings and incomings for good ; 
and may the tie that unites our hearts be strong and indissoluble as the 
thread of man's immortal life ! 

1 am just going to take your blackbird, the sweetest, I am sure, that 
ever sung, and prune its wings a little. 

Sylvander. 



No. CV. 
TO CLARINDA. 

Tuesday Morning. 

I CANNOT go out to-day, my dearest love, without sending you half a 
line by way of a sin offering ; but, believe me, 'twas the sin of ignorance. 
Could you think that I intended to hurt you by anything I said yester- 
night? Nature has been too kind to you for your happiness, your delicacy, 
}our sensibility. Oh why should such glorious qualifications be the 
fruitful source of wo! You have "murdered sleep" to me last night. I 
went to bed impressed with an idea that you were unhappy ; and every 
start I closed my eyes, busy Fancy painted you in such scenes of romantic 
miser)-, that I would almost be persuaded you are not well this morning. 

" If I unwitting have offended, 

Impute it not." 

" But while we live 

But one short hour, perhaps, between us two 
Let there be peace." 

If Mary has not gone by the time this reaches you, give her my best 
comi)liments. She is a charming girl, and highly worthy of the noblest 
love. 

I send you a poem to read till I call on you this night, which will be 
about nine. I wish I could procure some potent spell some fairy charm, 
that would protect from injury, or restore to rest, that bosom chord, 
" trembling alive all o'er," on which hangs your peace of mind. I thought, 
\ainly I fear thought, that the devotion of love — love strong as even you 
can feel, love guarded, invulnerably guarded, by all the purity of virtue, 
and all the pride of honour — I thought such a love might make you happy. 
Shall I be mistaken? I can no more, for hurry. 




No. CVI. 
TO CLARINDA. 



Friday I^Iorni^ig, 7 d clock. 

Your fears for Mary are truly laughable. I suppose, my love, you and 
showed her a scene which, perhaps, made her wish that she had a swain, 
d one who could love like me ; and 'tis a thousand pities that so good 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



a heart as hers should want an aim, an object. I am miserably stupid 
this moining. Yesterday I dined with a baronet, and sat pretty late over 
the bottle. And " who hath wo — who hath sorrow? they that tarry long 
at the wine ; they that go to seek mixed wine." Forgive me, likewise, a 
quotation from my favourite author. Solomon's knowledge of the world 
is very great. He may be looked on as the Spectator or Adventurer 
of his day: and it is, indeed, surprising what a sameness has ever been in 
human nature. The broken, but strongly characterising hints, that the 
royal author gives us of the manners of the court of Jerusalem and 
country of Israel are, in their great outlines, the same pictures that 
London and England, Versailles and France, exhibit some three thousand 
years later. The loves in the " Song of Songs " are all in the spirit of 
Lady M. W. Montagu, or Madame Ninon de I'Enclos ; though, for my 
part, I dislike both the ancient and modern voluptuaries ; and will dare 
to affirm, that such an attachment as mine to Clarinda, and such evenings 
as she and I liave spent, are what these greatly respectable and deeply 
experienced judges of life and love never dreamed of. 

I shall be with you this evening between eight and nine, and shall keep 
as sober hours as you could wish. 

I am ever, my dear Madam, yours, 

SVLVANDER. 



No. CVIL 

TO CLARINDA. 

[The " Puritanic scrawl " is an allusion to some reproaches w hich had been 
addressed to Mrs. M'Lehose, on account of her intimacy with Burns.] 

My ever dearest Clarinda, 

I make a numerous dinner-party wait me while 1 read yours and 
write this. Do not require that I should cease to love you, to adore you 
in my soul ; 'tis to me impossible : your peace and happiness are to me 
dearer than my soul. Name the terms on which you wish to see me, to 
correspond with me, and you have them. I must love, pine, mourn, and 
adore in secret : this you must not deny me. You will ever be to me 

" Dear as the light that visits those sad eyes, 
Dear as the ruddy drops that warm my heart." 

I have not patience to read the Puritanic scrawl. Damned sophistry! 
Ye heavens, thou God of nature, thou Redeemer of mankind ! ye look 
down with approving eyes on a passion inspired by the purest flame, and 
guarded by truth, delicacy, and honour ; but the half-inch soul of an 
unfeeling, cold-blooded, pitiful Presbyterian bigot cannot forgive anything 
above his dungeon-bosom and foggy head. 

Farewell! I'll be with you to-morrow evening; and be at rest in 
your mind. I will be yours in the way you think most to your happiness. 
I dare not proceed. I love, and will love ypu ; and will, with joyous 






±± 




THE LETTERS OF BUR.VS. 

confidence;, approach the throne of the Ahnight\- Judge of men witli 
your dear idea ; and will despise the scum of sentiment and the mist 
of sophistry. 

Sylvander. 



No. CVIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 
Madam, Wednesday, Midnight. 

After a wretched day, I am preparing for a sleepless night. I am 
going to address myself to the Almighty Witness of my actions — some 
time, perhaps very soon, my Almighty Judge. I am not going to be the 
advocate of Passion : be Thou my inspirer and testimony, O God, as I 
plead the cause of truth ! 

I have read over your friend's haughty, dictatorial letter: you are only 
answerable to your God in such a matter. Who gave any fellow-creature 
of yours (a fellow-creature incapable of being your judge, because not 
your peer) a right to catechise, scold, undervalue, abuse, and insult, 
wantonly and inhumanly to insult, you thus? I don't wish, not even 
wish, to deceive you, IVIadam. The Searcher of hearts is my witness how 
dear you are to me ; but though it were possible you could be still dearer 
to me, I would not even kiss your hand at the expense of your conscience. 
Away with declamation ! let us appeal to the bar of common sense. It 
is not moutiiing everything sacred; it is not vague ranting assertions; 
it is not assuming, haughtily and insultingly assuming, the dictatorial 
language of a Roman pontiff, that must dissolve a union like ours. Tell 
me. Madam, are you under the least shadow of an obligation to bestow 
your love, tenderness, caresses, affections, heart and soul, on Mr. 
M'Lehose — the man who has repeatedly, habitually, and barbarously 
broken through every tie of duty, nature, or gratitude to you? The laws 
of your country, indeed, for the most useful reasons of policy and sound 
government, have made }our person inviolate; but are your heart and 
affections bound to one who gives not the least return of either to you? 
You cannot do it ; it is not in the nature of things that you are bound to 
do it ; the common feelings of humanity forbid it. Have you, then, 
a heart and affections which are no man's right? You have. It would be 
highly, ridiculously absurd to suppose the contrary. Tell me, then, in the 
name of common sense, can it be wrong, is such a supposition compatible 
with the plainest ideas of right and wrong, that it is improper to bestow 
the heart and these affections on another — while that bestowing is not in 
the smallest degree hurtful to your duty to God, to your children, to your- 
self, or to society at large ? 

This is the great test ; the consequences : let us see them. In a 
widowed, forlorn, lonely situation, with a bosom glowing with love and 
tenderness, yet so delicately situated that you cannot indulge these nobler 
feelings except you meet with a man who has a soul capable 



1 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



391 



No. CIX. 

TO CLARINDA. 

"I AM distressed for thee, my brother Jonathan." I have suffered, 
Clarinda, from your letter. My soul was in arms at the sad perusal. I 
dreaded that 1 had acted wrong. \i I have wronged you, God forgive me. 
But, Clarinda, be comforted. Let us raise the tone of our feelings a little 
higher and bolder. A fellow-creature who leaves us — who spurns us 
without just cause, though once our bosom friend — up with a little honest 
pride : let him go ! How shall I comfort you, who am the cause of the 
injury? Can 1 wish that 1 had never seen you — that we had never met? 
No, I never will. But, have I thrown you friendless? — there is almost 
distraction in the thought. Father of mercies ! against Thee often have 
I sinned : through Thy grace I will endeavour to do so no more. She 
wh.o, Thou knowest, is dearer to me than myself — pour Thou the balm of 
peace into her past wounds, and hedge her about with Thy peculiar care, 
all her future days and nights. Strengthen her tender, noble mind firmly 
to suffer and magnanimously to bear. Make me worthy of that friendsliip, 
that love she honours me with. May my attachment to her be pure as 
devotion, and lasting as immortal life ! O Almighty Goodness, hear me ! 
Be to her at all times, particularly in the hour of distress or trial, a friend 
and comforter, a guide and guard. 

" How are thy servants blest, O Lord, 
How sure is their defence! 
Eternal wisdom is their guide, 
Their help Omnipotence." 



Forgive me, Clarinda, the injury I have done you. 
with you, as indeed I shall be ill at ease till I see you. 



No. ex. 



To-night I shall be 



Sylvanjjek. 



TO CLARINDA. 

T1V0 o'clock. 

I JUST now received your first letter of yesterday, by the careless 
negligence of the penny-post. Clarinda, matters are grown very serious 
with us; then seriously hear me, and hear me. Heaven — I met you, my 

dear , by far the first of womankind, at least to me; I esteemed, 

1 loved you at first sight ; the longer I am acquainted with you, the more 
innate amiableness and worth I discover in you. You have suffered a 
loss, I confess, for my sake : but if the firmest, steadiest, warmest friend- 
ship — if every endeavour to be worthy of your friendship — if a love, 
strong as the ties of nature, and holy as the duties of religion — if all 
these can make anything like a compensation for the evil 1 have occa- 
sioned you, if they be worth your acceptance, or can in the least add to 



^ 



392 



THi: LETTERS OF BURNS. 



your enjoyments — so help Sylvander, ye Powers above, in his hour of 
need, as he freely gives these all to Clarinda ! 

I esteem \ou, I love you as a friend : I admire you, I love you as a 
woman beyond any one in all the circle of creation : I know I shall con- 
tinue to esteem you, to love you, to pray for you — nay, to pray for myself 
for your sake. 

Expect me at eight — and believe me to be ever, my dearest Madam, 

Yours most entirely, 

Sylvander. 

No. CXI. 

TO CLARINDA. 

When matters, my love, are desperate, we must put on a desperate 
face — 

" On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man " — 

or, as the same author finely says in another place, 

" Let thy soul spring up 
And lay strong hold for help on Him that made thee." 

I am yours, Clarinda, for life. Never be discouraged at all this. Look 
forward : in a few weeks I shall be somewhere or other, out of the 
possibility of seeing you ; till then, I shall write you often, but visit you 
seldom. Your fame, your welfare, your happiness, are dearer to me than, 
any gratification whatever. Be comforted, my love ! the present moment 
is the worst ; the lenient hand of time is daily and hourly either lightening 
the burden, or making us insensible to the weight. None of these friends 
— I mean Mr. and the other gentleman — can hurt your worldly sup- 
port ; and of their friendship, in a little time you will learn to be easy, and 
by and by to be happy without it. A decent means of livelihood in the 
world, an approving God, a peaceful conscience, and one firm trusty 
friend — can anybody that has these be said to be unhappy? These are 
yours. 

To-morrow evening I shall be with you about eight, probably for the 
last time till I return to Edinburgh. In the meantime, should any of 
these two unlucky friends question you respecting me, whether I am the 
1/nin, I do not think they are entitled to any information. As to their 
jealousy and spying, I despise them. Adieu, my dearest Madam ! 

Sylvander. 

No. CXII. 

TO MR. JAMES CANDLISH. 

My dear Friend, [Edinburgh, 1788.] 

If once I were gone from this scene of hurry and dissipation, I 

promise myself the pleasure of that correspondence being renewed which 

has been so long broken. At present 1 have time for nothing. Dissipa- 



7=1-^ 




f 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 





tion and business engross every moment. I am engaged in assisting 
an honest Scotcli enthusiast/ a friend of mine, who is an engraver, 
and has taken it into his head to publish a collection of all our songs 
set to music, of which the words and music are done by Scotsmen. 
This, you will easily guess, is an undertaking exactly to my taste. I have 
collected, begged, borrowed, and stolen, all the songs I could meet with. 
" Pompey's Ghost," words and music, 1 beg from you immediately, to go 
into his second number — the first is already published. I shall shew you 
the first number when I see you in Glasgow, which will be in a fortnight 
or less. Do be so kind as to send me the song in a day or two — you 
cannot imagine how much it will oblige me. 

Direct to me at Mr. W. Cruikshank's, St. James's Square, New 
Town, Edinburgh. — R. B. 



No. CXIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, February 12, 1788. 

Some things in your late letters hurt me ; not that yotc say them, but 
that/.9z^ mistake me. Religion, my honoured Madam, has not only been 
all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest enjoyment. \ have 
indeed been the luckless victim of wayward follies ; but, alas ! I have ever 
been "more fool than knave.'' A mathematician without religion is a 
probable character : an irreligious poet is a monster. — R. B. 



No. CXIV. 

TO THE REV. JOHN SKINNER. 

Reverend and dear Sir, Edinburgh, 14M /^^i^r?,rrtr;)/, 1788. 

I have been a cripple now near three months, though I am getting 
vastly better, and have been very much hurried besides, or else I would 
have wrote you sooner. I must beg your pardon for the epistle you sent 
me appearing in the magazine. I had given a copy or two to some of my 
intimate friends, but did not know of the printing of it till the publication 
of the magazine. However, as it does great honour to us both, you will 
forgive it. 

The second volume of the songs I mentioned to you in my last is pub- 
lished to-day. I send you a copy, which I beg you will accept as a mark 
of veneration I have long had, and shall ever have, for your character, and 
of the claim I make to your continued acquaintance. Your songs appear 
in the third volume, with your name in the index; as I assure you. 
Sir, I have heard your " Tullochgorum," particularly among our west- 
country folks, given to many different names, and most commonly to the 
immortal author of "The Minstrel," who indeed never wrote anything 

' Mr. Johnson, publisher of the Scots Musical Muse inn. 





^ 



394 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



superior to " Gie's a sang, Montgomery cried." Your brother has prom- 
ised me your verses to the Marquis of Huntly's reel, which certainly deserve 
a place in the collection. My kind host, Mr. Cruikshank, of the High 
School here, and said to be one of the best Latins in this age, begs me to 
make you his grateful acknowledgments for the entertainment he has got 
in a Latin publication of yours, that I borrowed for him from your acquaint- 
ance, and much-respected friend in this place, the Reverend JDr. Webster. 
Mr. Cruikshank maintains that you write the best Latin since Buchanan. 
I leave Edinburgh to-morrow, but shall return in three weeks. Your song 
you mentioned in your last, to the tune of " Dumbarton Drums," and the 
other, which you say was done by a brother in trade of mine, a plough- 
man, I shall thank you for a copy of each. 
I am ever, reverend Sir, 
With the most respectful esteem and sincere veneration, jours, 

R. B. 



No. CXV. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

My dear Friend, Edinburgh, /-V/lr^rtrj/ 15, 1788. 

I received yours with the greatest pleasure. I shall arrive at 
Glasgow on Monday evening; and beg, if possible, you will meet me 
en Tuesday. I shall wait you Tuesday all day. I shall be found at 
Davies's Black Bull Inn. I am hurried, as if hunted by fifty devils, else 
I should go to Greenock ; but if you cannot possibly come, write me, if 
possible, to Glasgow, on Monday ; or direct to me at Mossgiel by Mauch- 
line ; and name a day and place in Ayrshire, within a fortnight from this 
date, where I may meet you. 1 only stay a fortnight in Ayrshire, and 
return to Edinburgh. 

I am ever, my dearest Friend, yours, 

R. B. 



No. CXVI. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, Sunday \Fcbruary 17]. 

To-MORROW, my dear Madam, I leave Edinburgh. I have altered all 
my plans of future life. A farm that I could live in, 1 could not find ; and, 
indeed , after the necessary support my brother and the rest of tlie family 
required, I could not \'enture on farming in that style suitable to my 
feelings. You will condemn me for the next step I have taken: I have 
entered into the Excise. 1 stay in the west about three weeks, and then 
return to Edinburgh for six weeks' instructions; afterwards, for I* get 
employ instantly. I go oh il plait a Dieu — et inon roi. I have chosen this, 
my dear friend, after mature deliberation. The question is not at what 



T={- 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 395 

door of fortune's palace shall we enter in, but what doors does she open 
to us? I was not likely to get anything to do. I wanted un biit, which 
is a dangerous, an unhappy situation. I got this without any hanging on, 
or mortifying solicitation : it is immediate bread ; and though poor in 
comparison of the last eighteen months of my existence, 'tis luxury in 
comparison of all my preceding life : besides, the commissioners are some 
of them my acquaintances, and all of them my firm friends. — R. B. 



No. CXVII. 
TO MRS. ROSE, 

OF KILRAVOCK. 

[This is an acknowledgment of two Highland airs which Mrs. Rose had sent 
nim, with a very kind letter.] 

Madam, Edinburgh, Febnia^-y 17, 1788. 

You are much indebted to some indispensable business I have 
had on my hands, otherwise my gratitude threatened such a return for 
your obliging favour as would have tired your patience. It but poorl}- 
expresses my feelings to say, that I am sensible of your kindness. It may 
be said of hearts such as yours is, and such, I hope, mine is, much more 
justly than Addison applies it — 

" Some souls by instinct to each other turn." 

There was something in my reception at Kilravock so different from the 
cold, obsequious, dancing-school bow of politeness, that it almost got into 
my head that friendship had occupied her ground without the interme- 
diate march of acquaintance. I wish I could transcribe, or rather trans- 
fuse into language, the glow of my heart when I read your letter. My 
ready fancy, with colours more mellow than life itself, painted the beauti- 
ful wild scenery of Kilravock ; the venerable grandeur of the castle ; the 
spreading woods ; the winding river, gladly leaving his unsightly, heathy 
source, and lingering with apparent delight as he passes the fairy walk at 
bottom of the garden ; your late distressful anxieties ; your present enjoy- 
ments ; your dear little angel, the pride of your hopes; my aged friend, 
venerable in worth and years, whose loyalty and other virtues will strongly 
entitle her to the support of the Almighty Spirit here, and .His peculiar 
favour in a happier state of existence. You cannot imagine. Madam, how 
much such feelings delight me : they are my dearest proofs of my own 
immortality. Should I never revisit' the north, as probably I never will, 
nor again see your hospitable mansion, were I some twenty years' hence 
to see )our little fellow's name making a proper figure in a newspaper 
paragraph, my heart would bound with pleasure. 

I am assisting a friend in a collection of Scottish songs, set to their 
proper tunes ; every air worth preserving is to be included : among others 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



I have given " Morag," and some few Highland airs which pleased me most, 
a dress which will be more generally known, though far, far inferior in 
zeal merit. As a small mark of my grateful esteem, I beg leave to present 
you with a copy of the work, as far as it is printed : the Man of Feeling, 
that first of men, has promised to transmit it by the first opportunity. 

I I)eg to be remembered most respectfully to my venerable friend and 
to vour little Highland chieftain. ^ When you see the "two fair spirits of 
tlie' hill" at Kildrummie,i tell thom that I have done myself the honour of 
setting myself down as one of their admirers for at least twenty years to 
come — consequentl} they must look upon me as an acquaintance for the 
same period; but, as the Apostle Paul says, "this 1 ask of grace, not of 
debt." 

I have the honour to be. Madam, &c., 

R. B. 



No. CXVIII. 



TO CLARINDA. 



[On the i8th of February, Burns left Edinburgh for Mossgiel, visiting Glasgow 
and Kilmarnock on his way. In a last fond interview, Sylvander and Clarinda 
had parted, but the correspondence was continued. Sylvander had disclosed to 
Clarinda his unhappy liason with Jean Armour and the prospect of a second pledge 
of illicit love. Clarinda in her replies speaks with kindness of Jean, but evidently 
looks forward on her own side to the prospect of a union with Burns, should her 
husband's death leave her free to marry again. "You know," she says, " I count 
all things (Heaven excepted) but loss, that I may win and keep you." How far 
Burns had any serious thoughts of marriage with Mrs. M'Lehose, should circum- 
stances permit it, it is difficult to say ; but at any rate he reckoned himself released 
from all obligations towards Jean Armour, except those of common humanity.] 

Glasgow, Monday Evening, Nine o'clock. 

The attraction of love. 1 find, is in an inverse proportion to the attrac- 
tion of the Newtonian philosophy. In the system of Sir Isaac, the nearer 
objects were to one another, the stronger was the attractive force. In 
my system, every milestone that marked my progress from Clarinda, 
awakened a keener pang of attachment to her. How do you feel, my 
love? Is your heart ill at ease? I fear it. God forbid that these persecu- 
tors should harass that peace, which is more precious to me than my own. 
Be assured \ shall ever think on you, muse on you, and in my moments 
of devotion, pray for you. The hour that you are not in my thoughts, " be 
that hour darkness ; let the shadows of death cover it ; let it not be num- 
bered in the hours of the day! " 

" When 1 forget the darling theme, 
Be my tongue mute! my fancy paint no more! 
And, dead to joy, forget my heart to beat! " 



' The references in these two sentences are 
young ladies of the neighbourhood. 



Mrs. Rose's mother and her son Hugh, and ta 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 397 

I have just met with my old friend, the ship captain ' — guess my pleasure : 
to meet you could alone have given me more. My brother William, too, 
the \oung saddler, has come to Glasgow to meet me ; and here are wo 
three spending the evening. 

I arrived here too late to write by post ; but Til wrap half-a-dozen sheets 
of blank paper together, and send it by the Fly, under the name of a parcel. 
You will hear from me next post-town. I would write you a longer letter, 
but for the present circumstances of my friend. 

Adieu, my Clarinda ! I am just going to propose your health by way of 
grace drink. 

Sylvander. 

No. CXIX. 
TO CLARINDA. 

« Y^\\M\miOCVi, Friday \Fcb. ■22\. 

I WROTE you, my dear Madam, the moment I alighted in Glasgow. 
Since then I have not had opportunity ; for in Paisley, where I arrived 
next day, my worthy, wise friencl Mr. Pattison did not allow me a moment's 
respite. I was there ten hours ; during which time I was introduced to 
nine men worth six thousands ; five men worth ten thousands ; his bro- 
ther, richly worth twenty tliousands ; and a young weaver, who will have 
thirty thousands good when his father, who has no more children than the 
said weaver, and a Whig kirk, dies. Mr. P. was bred a zealous Anti- 
burgher; but during his widowerhood he has found their strictness incom- 
patible with certain compromises he is often obliged to make with those 
powers of darkness — the devil, the world, and the flesh. . . . His only 
daughter, who, "if the beast be to the fore, and the branks bide hale," 
will have seven thousand pounds when her old father steps into the 
dark factory-office of eternity with his well-thrummed web of life, has 
put him again and again in a commendable fit of indignation by requesting 
a harpsichord. " O these boarding-schools ! " exclaims my prudent friend : 
"she was a good spinner and sewer till 1 was advised by her foes and 
mine to give her a year of Edinburgh ! " 

After two bottles more, my much-respected friend opened up to me a 
project — a legitimate child of Wisdom and (jood Sense : 'twas no less than 
a long-thought-on and deeply-matured design, to marry a girl full}' as 
elegant in her form as the famous priestess whom Saul consulted in his 
last hours, and who had been second maid of honour to his deceased 
wife. This, you may be sure, I highlv applauded; so I hope for a pair of 
gloves by and by. I spent the two bypast clays at Dunlop House, with 
that worthy family to whom I was dee'ply indebted early in my poetic 
career,' and in about two hours I shall present your " twa wee sarkies" to 
the little fellow. My dearest Clarinda, you are ever present with me ; and 
these hours, that drawl by among tlie fools and rascals of this world, are 
only supportable in the idea, that they are the forerunners of that happy 
hour that ushers me to "the mistress of my soul." Next week I shall visit 

1 Mr. Richard Brown. 



^■hz£. 



398 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



Dumfries, and next again return to Edinburgh. My letters, in these 
hurrying dissipated hours, will be heavy trash ; but you know the writer. 
God bless you ! 

Sylvander. 



No. CXX. 

TO GAVIN H.\M1LT0N, ESQ. 

[This letter refers to a proposal that Robert should become guarantee for his 
brother for a considerable amount. That his reluctance to assume the obligation 
did not arise from selfish motives is shewn by his advance of 180/. to Gilbert soon 
afterwards, when he had realized the proceeds of his poems.] 

IMossGiEL, Friday iMortu'iig: 

The language of refusal is \p me the most difficult language on earth, 
and you are the man in the world, excepting one of Right Honourable 
designation, to whom it gives me the greatest pain to hold such language. 
My i)rother has already got money, and shall want nothing in my power 
to enable him to fulfil his engagement with you ; but to be security on so 
large a scale, even for a brother, is what I dare not do, except I were in 
such circumstances of life as that the worst that might happen could not 
greatly injure me. 

I never wrote a letter which gave me so much pain in my life, as I know 
the unhappy consequences : I shall incur the displeasure of a gentleman 
for whom I have the highest respect, and to whom I am deeply obliged. 

I am ever, Sir, 
Your obliged and very humble Servant, 

Robert Burns. 



No. CXXI. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

My dear Sir, Mossgiel, 24/// February, 1788. 

I arrived here, at my brother's, only yesterday, after fighting 
my way through Paisley and Kilmarnock against those old powerful 
foes of mine — the devil, the world, and the flesh; so terrible in the 
fields of dissipation. I have met with few incidents in my life which 
gave me so much pleasure as meeting you in Glasgow. There is a time 
of life beyond which we cannot form a tic worth the name of friendship. 
"Oh youth! enchanting stage, profusely blest." Life is a fairy scene: 
almost all that deserves the name of enjoyment or pleasure is only a 
charming delusion ; and in comes repining age, in all the gravity of hoary 
wisdom, and wretchedly chases away the bewitching phantom. When I 
think of life, I resolve to keep a strict look-out in the course of economy, 
for the sake of worldly convenience and independence of mind : to cultivate 
intimacy with a few of the companions of youth, that they may be the 



% 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 399 

friends of age ; never to refuse my liquorish humour a handful of the 
sweetmeats of life, when they come not too dear; and, for futurity — 

The present moment is our ain, 
The neist we never saw ! 

How like you my philosophy? Give my best compliments to Mrs. B., 
and believe me to be, 

My dear Sir, yours most truly, 

R. B. 



No. CXXII. 
TO CLARINDA. 

CuMNOCic YSunday\, '2d Ularch, 178S. 

I HOPE, and am certain, that my generous Clarinda will not tliink my 
silence, for now a long week, has been in any degree owing to my forget- 
fulness. I have been tossed about through the country ever since I wrote 
you; and am here, returning from Uumfries-shire, at an inn, the post- 
office of the place, with just so long time as my horse eats his corn, to 
write you. I have been hurried with business and dissipation almost 
equal to the insidious decree of the Persian monarch's mandate, when he 
forbade asking petition of God or man for forty days. Had the venerable 
prophet been as throng [busy] as I, he had not broken the decree, at least 
not thrice a-day. 

I am thinking my farming scheme will yet hold. A worthy, intelligent 
farmer, my father's friend and my own, has been with me on the spot : he 
thinks the bargain practicable. I am myself, on a more serious review of 
the lands, much better pleased with them. I wont mention this in writing 
to anybody but you and [Ainslie] . Don't accuse me of being fickle : I 
have the two plans of life before me, and I wish to adopt the one most 
likely to procure me independence. I shall be in Edinburgh next week. 
I long to see you : your image is omnipresent to me ; nay, I am convinced 
I would soon idol'atrize it most seriously — so much' do absence and 
memory improve the medium through which one sees the much-loved 
object. To-night, at the sacred hour of eight, I expect to meet you — at 
the Throne of Grace. I hope, as I go home to-night, to find a letter from 
you at the post-office in Mauchline. I have just once seen that dear hand 
since I left Edinburgh — a letter indeed which much affected me. Tell 
me, first of womankind ! will ni\- warmest attachment, my sincerest 
friendship, my correspondence— will they be any compensation for the 
sacrifices you make for my sake? If they will, they are yours. If I 
settle on the farm I propose. I am just a day and a half's ride' from Edin- 
burgh. We will meet — don't you say " perhaps too often! " 

Farewell, my fair, my charming poetess ! May all good things ever at- 
tend you ! 

I am ever, my dearest Madam, yours, 

Sylvander. 




400 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CXXIII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 

My dear Sir, Mauchline, 3./.i/^rrA, 1788. 

Apologies for not writing are frequently like apologies for not 
singing — the apology better than the song. I have fought my way 
severely through the savage hospitality of this country, (the object of all 
hosts being) to send every guest drunk to bed if they can. . . . 

I should return my thanks for your hospitality (I leave a blank for 

the epithet, as I know none can do it justice) to a poor wayfaring bard, 
who was spent and almost overpowered fighting with prosaic wickednesses 
in high places ; but I am afraid lest you should burn the letter whenever 
you come to the passage, so I pass over it in silence. I am just returned 
from visiting Mr. Miller's farm. The friend whom I told you I would take 
with me was highly pleased with the farm ; and as he is, without ex- 
ception, the most intelligent farmer in the country, he has staggered me a 
good deal. I have the two plans of life before me : I shall balance them 
to the best of my judgment, and fix on the most eligible. I have written 
Mr. Miller, and shall wait on him when I come to town, which shall be 
the beginning or middle of next week : I would be in sooner, but my 
unlucky knee'is rather worse, and I fear for some time will scarcely stand 
the fatigue of my Excise instruct! jns. I only mention these ideas to you ; 
and, indeed, except Mr. Ainslie, whom I intend writing to to-morrow, I will 
not write at all to Edinburgh till I return to it. I would send my com- 
pliments to Mr. Nicol, but he would be hurt if he knew I wrote to any- 
body, and not to him ; so I shall only beg my best, kindest, kindest 
compliments to my worthy hostess and the sweet little Rosebud. 

So soon as I am settled in the routine of life, either as an excise-officer 
or as a farmer, I propose myself great pleasure from a regular correspon- 
dence with the only man almost I ever saw who joined the most attentive 
prudence with the warmest generosity. 

I am much interested for that best of men. Mr. Wood. I hope he is in 
better health and spirits than when I saw him last. 

I am ever, my dearest Friend, 

Your obliged, humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. CXXIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

My dear Friend. Mauchline, 3</^/«rr/M788. 

I am just returned from Mr. Miller's farm. My old friend whom 

I took with me was highly pleased with the bargain, and advised me to 

accept of it. He is theniost intelligent, sensible farmer in the county, and 

his advice has staggered me a good deal. I have the two plans before 

me : I shall endeavour to balance them to the best of my judgment, and 




w 



rilE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 40 1 

fix on the most eligible. On the whole, if I find Mr. Miller in the same 
favourable disposition as when I saw him last, I shall in all probability 
turn farmer. 

I have been through sore tribulation, and under much buffeting of the 
Wicked One, since I came to this country. Jean I found banished like a 
martyr — forlorn, destitute, and friendless. 1 have reconciled her to her 
mother. . . . 

1 shall be in Edinburgh the middle of next week. My farming ideas 
I shall keep cjuiet till 1 see. 1 got a letter from Clarinda yesterday, and 
she tells me she lias got no letter of mine but one. Tell her that I wrote 
to her from Glasgow, from Kilmarnock, from Mauchline, and yesterday 
from Cumnock, as 1 returned from Dumfries. Indeed, she is the only 
person in Edinburgh I have written to till this day. How are your soul 
and body putting up? — a little like man and wife, I suppose. 

Your faithful Friend, 

R. B. 



No. CXXV. 

[TO -?] 

[The next letter is supposed h\ Allan Cunningham to be addressed to Mr. 
Robert Ainslie, under date Mauchline, July, 1787, but Mr. R. Chambers suspects 
there is an error here both as to date and superscription.] 

My dear Sir Mauchline, /Wa/c<?« 3(/awrf8M^/arc//, 178S. 

My life, since I saw you last, has been one continued hurry ; that 
savage hospitality which knocks a man down with strong liquors is the 
devil. I have a sore warfare in this world — the devil, the world, and the 
flesh are three formidable foes. The first I generally try to fly from ; the 
second, alas ! generally flies from me ; but the third is my plague, worse 
than the ten plagues of Egypt. 

I have been looking over several farms in this country; one, in par- 
ticular, in Nithsdale, pleased me so well, that if my offer to the proprietor 
is accepted, I shall commence farmer at Whitsunday. If farming do not 
appear eligible, I shall have recourse to my other shift : ^ but this to a 
friend. 

I set out for Edinburgh on Monday morning : how long I stay there is 
uncertain, but you will know so soon as I can inform you myself. How- 
ever, I determined poesy must be laid aside for some time ; my mind 
has been vitiated with idleness, and it will take a good deal of effort to 
habituate it to the routine of business. 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Yours sincerely, 

R. B. 



^3S 





iti 



402 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CXXVI. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

[^rnrch eth, 1788.] 

I OWN myself guilt}-, Clarinda : I should have written you last week. 
But when you recollect, my dearest Madam, that yours of this night's post 
is only the third I have from you, and that this is the fifth or sixth I have 
sent to you, you will not reproach me, with a good grace, for unkindness. 
1 iiave always some kind of idea not to sit down to write a letter, except I 
have time, and possession of my faculties, so as to do some justice to my 
letter ; which at present is rarely my situation. For instance, yesterday 
I dined at a friend's at some distance : the savage hospitality of this 
country spent me the most part of the night over the nauseous potion in 
the bowl. This day — sick — headache — low spirits — miserable — fast- 
ing, except for a draught of water or small beer. Now eight o'clock at 
night ; only able to crawl ten minutes' walk into Mauchline, to wait tlie 
post, in the pleasurable hope of hearing from the mistress of my soul. 

But truce with all this ! When I sit down to write to you, all is happi- 
ness and peace. A hundred times a clay do I tigure you before your 
taper, your book or work laid aside as I get within the room. How happy 
have Ibeen ! and how little of that scantling portion of time, called the 
life of man, is sacred to happiness, much less transport. 

I could moralize to-night like a death's-head. 

" O what is life, that thoughtless wish of all ! 
A drop of honey in a draught of gall." 

Nothing astonishes me more, when a little sickness clogs the wheels of 
life, than the thoughtless career we run in the hour of health. " None 
saith, Where is God, my Maker, that giveth songs in the night : who 
teacheth us more knowledge than the beasts of the field, and more under- 
standing than the fowls of the air? " 

Give me, my Maker, to remember Thee ! Give me to act up to tlie 
dignity of my nature! Give me to feel "another's wo;" and continue 
with me that dear loved friend that feels with mine ! 

The dignifying and dignitied consciousness of'an honest man, and the 
well-grounded trust in approving Heaven, are two most substantial foun- 
dations of happiness. . . . 

I could not have written a page to any mortal except yourself. I'll 
write you by Sunday's post. Adieu ! Good-night ! 

Sylvander. 

No. CXXVII. 
SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

MossGiEL, jth March, 178S. 

Clarinda, 1 have been so stung with your reproach for unkindness — 
a sin so unlike me, a sin I detest more than a breach of the whole Deca- 
logue, fifth, sixth, seventh, and ninth articles excepted — that I believe 




Ur THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 403 

I shall not rest in my grave about it, if I die before 1 see you. You have 
often allowed me the head to judge and the heart to feel the influence 
of female excellence : was it not blasphemy then, against your own charms 
and against my feelings, to suppose that a short fortnight could abate my 
passion ? 

You, my love, may have your cares and anxieti ;s to disturb you ; but 
they are the usual occurrences of life. Your future views are fixed, and 
your mind in a settled routine. Could not you, my ever dearest Madam, 
make a litt'e allowance for a man. after long absence, paying a short 
visit to a country full of friends, relations, and early intimates? Cannot 
you guess, my Clarinda, what thoughts, what cares, what anxious fore- 
bodings, hopes, and fears, must crowd the breast of the man of keen 
sensibility, when no less is on the tapis than his aim, his employment, his 
very existence through future life? 

To be overtopped in anything else, 1 can bear ; but in the tests of 
generous love, I defy all mankind ! not even to the tender, the fond, the 
loving Clarinda ; she whose strength of attachment, whose melting soul, 
may vie with Eloise and Sappho ; not even she can overpay the affection 
she owes me ! 

Now that, not my apology, but my defence is made, I feel my soul 
respire more easily. I know you will go along with me in my justification : 
would to Heaven \ou could in my adoption, too ! I mean an adoption 
beneath the stars — an adoption where I might revel in the immediate 
beams jf 

"She the bright sun of all her sex." 

I would not have you, my dear Madam, so much hurt at Miss Nimmo's 
coldness. 'Tis placing yourself below her, an honour she by no means 
deserves. We ought, when we wish to be economists in happiness — 
we ought, in the first place, to fix the standard of our own character; 
and when, on full examination, we know where we stand, and how 
much ground we occupy, let us contend for it as property ; and those 
who seem to doubt or deny us what is justly ours, let us either pity their 
prejudices or despise their judgment. I know, my dear, you will sa}- this 
is self-conceit ; but I call -it self-knowledge: the one is the overweening 
opinion of a fool, who fancies himself to be what he wishes himself to be 
thought ; the other is the honest justice that a man of sense, who has 
thoroughly examined the subject, owes to himself. Without this standard, 
this column in our own mind, we are perpetually at the mercy of the 
petulance, the mistakes, the prejudices, nay. the very weakness and 
wickedne.-s of our fellow-creatures. 

I urge this, my dear, both to confirm myself in the doctrine which, I 
assure you, I sometimes need, and because 1 know that this causes you 
often much disquiet. To return to Miss Nimmo. She is most certainly 
a worthy soul ; and equalled by very, very few in goodness of heart. Ikit 
can she boast more goodness of heart than Clarinda? Not even prejudice 
will dare to say so. For penetration and discernment, Clarinda sees far 
beyond her. To wit. Miss Nimmo dare make no pretence : to Clarinda"s 




T=\- 




1 404 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



wit, scarce any of her sex dare make pretence. Personal charms, it would 
be ridiculous to run the parallel : and for conduct in life. Miss Nimmo 
was never called out, either much to do, or to suffer. Clarinda has been 
both ; and has performed her part, where Miss Nimmo would have sunk 
at the bare idea. 

Away, then, with these disquietudes ! Let us pray with the honest 
weaver of Kilbarchan, "Lord, send us a gude conceit o' ourseP ! " or in 
die words of the auld sang, 

" Who does me disdain, I can scorn them again, 
And I'll never mind any such foes." 

There is an error in the commerce of intimacy. . . . 

Happy is our lot, indeed, when we meet with an honest merchant, who 
is qualified to deal with us on our own terms ; but that is a rarity : with 
almost everybody we must pocket our pearls, less or more, and learn, in 
the old Scots phrase, " To gie sic like as we get." For this reason we 
should try to erect a kind of bank or storehouse in our own mind ; or, as 
the Psalmist says, "We should commune with our own hearts and be 
htill.-' . . . 

1 wrote you yesternight, which will reach you long before this can. I 
may write Mr. Ainslie before I see him, but 1 am not sure. 
Farewell I and remember 

Sylvander. 





No. cxxvin. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

[Jean Armour having been put to the door by her father, Burns felt bound to 
provide her an asylum. She bore twins (daughters), who died in a few days. 
Of the first pair of twins, born in September, 1786, the girl died fourteen months 
after — the boy was taken charge of by his grandmother at Mossgiel.] 

Mauchline, -jth March, 1788. 

I HAVE been out of the country, my dear friend, and have not had an 
opportunity of writing till now, when I am afraid you will be gone out of 
the country too. I have been looking at farms, and after all, perhaps I 
may settle in the character of a farmer. I have got so vicious a bent to 
idleness, and have ever been so little a man of business, that it will take 
no ordinary effort to bring my mind properly into the routine ; but \ou 
will say a " great effort is worthy of you." I say so myself, and butter up 
my vanity with all the stimulating compliments I can think of. Men of 
grave geometrical minds, the sons of " which was to be demonstrated," 
may cry up reason as much as they please ; but I have always found an 
honest passion, or native instinct, the truest auxiliary in the warfare of 
this world. Reason almost always comes to me like an unlucky wife to a 
poor devil of a husband — just in sufficient time to add her reproaches to 
'lis other grievances. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



[After explaining his relations with Jean Armour, Burns says: — ] 
I am gratified with your kind inquiries after her; as, after all, I may say 



with Othello - 



" Excellent wretch! 

Perdition catch my soul, but I do love the 




1 go for Edinburgh on Monda\-. Yours, 



R. B. 



No. CXXIX. 
TO MR. ROBERT MUIR. 

Dear Sir Mossgiel, ^th March, 1788. 

1 have parti}-- changed ni}- ideas, my dear friend, since I saw you. 
I took old Glenconner with me to Mr. Miller's farm; and he was so 
pleased with it, that I have wrote an offer to Mr. Miller, which if he 
accepts, I shall sit down a plain farmer — the happiest of lives when a man 
can live by it. In this case I shall not stay in Edinburgh above a week. 
I set out on Monday, and would have come by Kilmarnock, but there are 
several small sums owing me for my first edition about Galston and 
Newmills, and I shall set off so early as to despatch my business and 
reach Glasgow by night. When I return, I shall devote a forenoon or 
two to make some kind of acknowledgment for all the kindness I owe 
your friendship. Now that I hope to settle with some credit and comfort 
at home, there was not any friendship or friendly correspondence that 
promised me more pleasure than yours; I hope I will not be disappointed. 
I trust the spring will renew your shattered frame, and make your friends 
happy. You and I have often agreed that life is no great blessing, on the 
whole. The close of life, indeed, to a reasoning age, is 

" Dark as was Chaos, ere the infant sun 
Was roiled together, or had tried his beams 
Athwart the gloom profound." 

But an honest man has nothing to fear. If we lie down in the grave, the 
whole man a piece of broken machinery, to moulder with the clods of the 
valley, be it so ; at least there is an end of pain, care, woes, and wants : 
if that part of us called mind does survive the apparent destruction of the 
man — away with old-wife prejudices and tales! Every age and every 
nation has had a different set of stories : and as the many are alway.«: 
weak, of consequence they have often, perhaps always, been deceived. 
A man conscious of having acted an honest part among his fellow- 
creatures — even granting that he may have been the sport at times of 
passions and instincts — he goes to a great unknown Being, who could 
have no other end in giving him existence but to make him happy ; who 
gave him those passions and instincts, and well knows their force. 

These, my worthy friend, are my ideas ; and I know they are not far 
different from yours. It becomes a man of sense to think tor himself, 
particularly in a case where all men are equallv interested, and where, 
indeed, all men are equally in the dark. 

Adieu, mv dear Sir. God send us a cheerful meeting! — R. IS. 



w 




4O6 77//; LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CXXX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Madam, Mossoiel, ^th March, 17 

The last paragraph in yours of the 30th February afifected me 
most, so I shall begin my answer where you ended your letter. That I 
am often a sinner, with any little wit 1 have, I do confess : but I have 
taxed my recollection to no purpose to find out when it was employed 
against you. 1 hate an ungenerous sarcasm a great deal worse than I 
do the devil — at least as Milton describes him ; and though I may be 
rascally enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, I cannot endure it in 
others. You, my honoured friend, who cannot appear in any light but 
you are sure of being respectable — you can atford to pass by an occasion 
to display your wit, because you may depend for fame on your sense ; or, 
if you choose to be silent, you know you can rely on the gratitude of 
many and the esteem of all ; but God help us who are wits or witlings by 
profession : if we stand not for fame there, we sink unsupported ! 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell me of Coila.' I may say t(> 
the fair painter who does me so much honour, as Dr. Beattie says to Ross, 
the poet of his muse Scota, from which, by the by, I took the idea of 
Coila ('tis a poem of Beattie's in the Scottish dialect, which perhaps you 
have never seen) : — 

' Ye shake your head, but o' my fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scota on her legs : 
Lang had she lien wi' beffs and " 



Bumbaz'd and dizzie, 
Her fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Wae's me, poor hizzie.' 



No. CXXXI. 
TO MISS CHALMERS. 



R. B. 



[Burns left Mauchline on the loth of March to return to Edinburgh, and de- 
cided to lease a farm from Mr. Miller.] 

Edinburgh, Mafch 14, 178S. 

I KNOW, mv ever dear friend, that you will be pleased with the news 
when 1 tell you I have at last taken a lease of a farm. Yesternight I 
completed a bargain with Mr. Miller of Dalsv>-inton for the farm of Ellis- 
land, on the banks of the Nith, between five and six miles above Dumfries. 
1 liegan at Whitsunday to build a house, drive lime, &c. ; and Heaven 
l^e niy help ! for it will take a strong effort to bring my mind into the 
routine of business. I have discharged all the army ot'my former pursuits, 
fancies, and pleasures — a motley host ! — and have literally and strictly 

' A daughter of Mrs. Dunlop was painting a sketch of Coila. 



/^^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 407 

retained only the ideas of a few friends, wliich I have incorporated into a 
Hfeguard. I trust in Dr. Johnson's observation, -'Where much is 
attempted, something is done." Firmness, both in sufferance and exer- 
tion, is a character I would wish to be thought to possess ; and have 
always despised the whining yelp of complaint, and the cowardly, feeble 
resolve. 

Poor Miss [Kennedy, sister of Mrs. Gavin Hamilton] is ailing a good 
deal this winter, and begged me to remember her to you the first time I 
wrote to you. Surely woman, amiable woman is often made in vain. 
Too delicately formed for the rougher pursuits of ambition ; too noble for 
the dirt of avarice ; and even too gentle for the rage of pleasure ; formed 
indeed for. and highly susceptible of, enjoyment and rapture ; but that 
enjoyment, alas ! almost wholly at the mercy of the caprice, malevolence, 
stupidity, or wickedness of an animal at all times comparatively unfeeling, 
and often brutal. — R. B. 



No. CXXXII. 
SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Monday Noon \^^th MarcJi]. 

I WILL meet }Ou to-morrow, Clarinda, as you appoint. My Excise 
affair is just concluded), and I have got my order for instructions : so 
far good. Wednesday night I am engaged to sup among some of the 
principals of the Excise, so can only make a call for you that evening ; 
but next day, I stay to dine with one of the Commissioners, so cannot go 
till Friday morning. 

\'our hopes, your fears, your cares, my love, are mine ; so don't mind 
them. I will take you in my hand through the dreary wilds of this world, 
and scare away the ravening bird or beast that would annoy you. I saw 
Mary in town to-day, and asked her if she had seen you. I shall certainly 
bespeak Mr. Ainslie, as you desire. 

Excuse me, my dearest angel, this hurried scrawl and miserable paper: 
circumstances make both. Farewell till to-morrow. 

Sylvander. 



No. CXXXIII. 
SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Tuesday Morjiing [iSi'A March^. 

I AM just hurrying away to wait on the Great Man, Clarinda ; but I 
have more respect to my own peace and happiness than to set out without 
waiting on you ; for my imagination, like a child's favourite bird, will 
fondly flutter along with this scrawl, till it perch on your bosom. I thank 
you for all the happiness you bestowed on me yesterday. The walk — 





±± 



^ 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



delightful; the evening — rapture. Do not be uneasy to-day, Clarinda: 
forgive me. I am in rather better spirits to-day, though I had but an 
inditferent night. Care, anxiety, .sat on my spirits ; and all the cheerful- 
ness of this morning is the fruit of some serious, important ideas that lie, 
in their realities, beyond " the dark and the narrow house," as Ossian, 
prince of poets, says. The Father of Mercies be with you, Clarinda! and 
every good thing attend you ! 

Sylvander. 



No. CXXXIV. 
SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Wednesday Morning [19M Marcli]. 

Clarinda, will that envious night-cap hinder you from appearing at 
the window as I pass? "Who is she that looketh forth as the morning; 
fair as the sun, clear as the moon, terrible as an army with banners ?" 

Do not accuse me of fond folly for this line ; you know I am a cool 
lover. I mean by these presents greeting, to let you to wit, that arch- 
rascal Creech has not done my business yesternight, which has put off my 
leaving town till Monday morning. To-morrow at eleven I meet with 
him for the last time ; just the hour I should have met far more agreeable 
company. 

You will tell me this evening whether you cannot make our hour of 
meeting to-morrow one o'clock. I have just now written Creech such a 
letter, that the very goose-feather in my hand shrunk back 'from the line, 
and seemed to say, " I exceedingly fear and quake !" I am forming ideal 
schemes of vengeance. . . . Adieu, and think on 

Sylvander. 



No. CXXXV. 
SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

Friday, Nine o'clock, Night \i\st i\[arck'\. 

I AM just now come in, and have read your letter. The first thing I 
did was to thank the divine Disposer of events, that He has had such 
happiness in store for me as the connexion I have with you. Life, my 
Clarinda, is a weary, barren path ; and woe be to him or her that ventures 
on it alone ! For me, 1 have my dearest partner of my soul : Clarinda 
and I will make out our pilgrimage together. Wherever 1 am, I shall 
constantly let her know how I go on, what I observe in the world around 
me, and what adventures I meet with. Will it please you, my love, to 
get every week, or at least every fortnight, a packet, two or three sheets, 
full of remarks, nonsense, news, rhymes, and old songs? Will you open, 
with satisfaction and delight, a letter from a man who loves you, who has 
loved you, and who will love you to death, through death, and for ever? 





,1 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 409 

Oh, Clarinda! what do I owe to Heaven for blessing me with such a 
piece of exalted excellence as you! I call over your idea, as a miser 
counts over his treasure. Tell me, were you studious to please me last 
night? I am sure )ou did it to transport. How rich am I who have such 
a treasure as you ! You know me ; you know how to make me happy ; 
and you do it most effectually, (jod bless you with 

■' Long life, long youth, long pleasure, and a friend! " 

To-morrow night, according to your own direction, 1 shall watch the 
window : "tis the star that guides me to paradise. The great relish to all 
is, that Honour, that Innocence, that Religion, are the witnesses and 
guarantees of our happiness. "The Lord God knoweth," and perhaps 
" Israel he shall know," my love and your merit. Adieu. Clarinda! I am 
going to remember you in my prayers. 

Sylvander. 

No. CXXXVI. 
TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Glasgow, 26M !\[arch, 1788. 
I AM monstrously to blame, my dear Sir, in not writing to you, and 
sending you the Directory. I have been getting my tack extended, as I 
have taken a farm, and I have been racking shop accounts with Mr. 
Creech ; both of which, together with watching, fatigue, and a load of 
care almost too heavy for my shoulders, have in some degree actually 
fevered me. I really forgot the Directory yesterday, which vexed me; 
but I was convulsed with rage a great part of the day. — R. B. 



No. CXXXVII. 

TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

[Burns's care and anxiety at this time were due not merely to business arrange- 
ments, but to the news he had just received of the birth and speedy death of his 
offspring by Jean Armour.] 

IMauchline, ->,ist March, 1788. 

Yesterday, my dear Sir, as I was riding through a track of melan- 
chol\-, joyless muirs, between Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday, I 
turned my thoughts to psalms and hymns, and spiritual songs ; and 
your favourite air, "Captain O'Kean.'" coming at length into my head, I 
tried these words to it. You will see that the first part of the tune must 
be repeated. 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves returning, 
The murmuring streamlet winds clear through the vale; 

The hawthorn trees blow in the dew of the morning, 
And wild scattered cowslips bedeck the green dale : 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem fair. 

While the lingering moments are numbered by care? 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly singing. 

Can soothe the sad bosom of joyless despair. 





=^ 



410 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses ; but as I have only a sketch 
of the tune, I leave it with you to try if they suit the measure of the 
music. 

I am so harassed with care and anxiety about this farming project of 
mine, that my muse has degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that 
ever picked cinders or followed a tinker. When I am fairly got into the 
routine of business, I shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps 
with some C]ueries respecting farming: at present, the world sits such a 
load on my mind, that it has effaced almost every trace of the poet in me. 

My very best compliments and good wishes to Mrs. Cleghorn. — R. B. 



No. CXXXVIII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, 

EDINBrRcni. 

Mauchline, 7M April, 1788. 

I HAVE not delayed so long respecting you, my much respected friend, 
because I thought no farther of my promise. I have long since given up 
that kind of formal correspondence, where one sits down irksomely 
to write a letter, because we think we are in duty bound so to do, 

I have been roving over the country, as the farm I have taken is forty 
miles from this place, hiring servants and preparing matters ; but most of 
all, I am earnestly busy to bring about a revolution in my own mind. 
As, till within these eighteen months, I never was the wealthy master of 
ten guineas, my knowledge of business is to learn ; add to this, my late 
scenes of idleness and dissipation have enervated my mind to an alarming 
degree. Skill in the sober science of life is my most serious and hourly 
study. I have dropt all conversation and all reading (prose reading) but 
what tends in some way or other to my serious aim. Except one worthy 
young fellow, I have not one single correspondent in Edinburgh. You 
have indeed kindly made me an offer of that kind. The world of wits 
and gens C07)une il faut which I lately left, and with whom I never again 
wiirintimately mix — from that port. Sir, I expect your Gazette : what /t'J 
beaux esprits are saying, what they are doing, and what they are singing. 
Any sober intelligence from my sequestered walks of life ; any droll 
original ; any passing remark, important forsooth, because it is mine ; any 
little poetic effort, however embryoth ; these, my dear Sir, are all you 
have to expect from me. When I talk of poetic efforts, I must have it 
always understood that I appeal from your wit and taste to your friend- 
ship and good-nature. The first would be my favourite tribunal, where I 
defied censure ; but the last, where I declined justice. 

I have scarcely made a single distich since I saw you. When I meet 
with an old Scots air that has any facetious idea in its name, I have a 
peculiar pleasure in following out that idea for a verse or two. 

I trust that this will find you in better health than I did last time I 
called for you. A few lines from you, directed to me at Mauchline, were 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



41] 



it but to let me know how you are, will set my mind a good deal [at rest] . 
Now, never shun the idea of writing me, because perhaps you may be 
out of humour or spirits. I could give you a hundred good consequences 
attending a dull letter; one, for example, and the remaining ninety-nine 
some other time — it will always serve to keep in countenance, my much 
respected Sir, 

You/ obliged Friend and humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. CXXXIX. 

TO MISS CHALMERS. 

Mauchline, 7//j April, 1788. 

I AM indebted to you and Miss Nimmo for letting me know Miss 
Kenned}'. Strange, how apt we are to indulge prejudices in our judg- 
ments of one another! Even I, who pique myself on my skill in marking 
characters — because I am too proud of my character as a man to be 
dazzled in my judgment for glaring Avealth, and too proud of my situation 
as a poor man to be biassed against squalid poverty — 1 was unacquainted 
with Miss K.'s very uncommon worth. 

I am going on a good deal progressive in t/ioii grand but — the sober 
science of life. I have lately made some sacrifices, for which, were I 
inva voce with you to paint the situation and recount the circumstances, 
you would applaud me. — R. B. 

CXL. 
TO MR. JAMES SMITH, 

AVON rRINTFIELD, LINLITHGOW^ 



[Burns's allusion in the preceding letter to the " sacrifices " he had made is 
supposed to refer to his resolution to recognize Jean Armour as his wife, and make 
her, in the familiar country phrase, an honest woman. In the following letter we 
have the first distinct formal announcement of his new relation.s with Jean.] 

Mauchline, April 28, 1788. 

Beware of your Strasburgh, my good Sir! Look on this as the 
opening of a correspondence, like the opening of a twenty-four gim 
battery ! 

There is no understanding a man properly without knowing something 
of his previous ideas — that is to say, if the man has any ideas ; for I know 
many who, in the animal muster, pass for men, that are the scanty 
masters of only one idea on any given subject, and by far the greatest 
part of your acquaintances and mine can barely iDoast of ideas, 1-25 — 1-5 
— 175 (or some such fractional matter) ; so, to let you a little into the 
secrets of my pericranium, there is, you must know, a certain clean- 
limbed, handsome, bewitching young hu'ssey of }0ur acquaintance, to 
whom 1 have lately and pri\'ately given a mairimonial title to my corpus. 




-t£t 



412 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

" Bode a robe and wear it, 
Bode a poke and bear it," 

says the wise old Scots adage ! I hate to presage ill-hick ; and as ray 
girl has been doubly kinder to me than even the best of women usually 
are to their partners of our sex, in similar circumstances, I reckon on 
twelve times a brace of children against I celebrate my twelfth wedding- 
day. . . . 

" Light's heartsome," quo' the wife when she was stealing sheep You 
see what a lamp I have hung up to lighten your paths, when you are idle 
enough to explore the combinations and relations of my ideas. 'Tis now 
as plain as a pikestaff why a twenty-four gun battery was a metaphor I 
could readily employ. 

Now for business. I intend to present Mrs. Burns with a printed 
shawl, an article of which I daresay you have variety : 'tis my first present 
to her since I have irrevocably called her mine ; and I have a kind of 
whimsical wish to get the first said present from an old and much-valued 
friend of hers and mine — a trusty Trojan, whose friendship I count myself 
possessed of as a life-rent lease. 

Look on this letter as a " beginning of sorrows; " I will write you till 
your eyes ache reading nonsense. 

Mrs. Burns ('tis only her private designation) begs her best compliments 
to you. — R. B. 



No. CXLL 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Madam, Mauchune, 28M April, 1788. 

Your powers of reprehension must be great indeed, as I assure you 
they made my heart ache with penitential pangs, even though I was 
really not guilty. As I commence farmer at Whitsunday, you will easily 
guess I must be pretty busy ; but that is not all. As I got the offer of the 
Excise business without solicitation, and as it costs me only six months' 1 
attendance for instructions to entitle me to a commission — which com- 
mission lies by me, and at any future period, on my simple petition, can 
be resumed — I thought five-and-thirty pounds a-year was no bad dernier 
ressort for a poor poet, if Fortune in her jade tricks should kick him down 
from the little eminence to which she has lately helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending these instmctions, to have 
them completed before Whitsunday. Still, Madam, I prepared with the 
sincerest pleasure to meet you at the Mount, and came to my brother's 
on Saturday night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights preceding 
I had slept in an apartment where the force of the winds and rains was 
only mitigated by being sifted through numberless apertures in the 
windows, walls, &c. In consequence I was on Sunday, Monday, and 
part of Tuesday, unable to stir out of bed, with all the miserable effects of 
a violent cold. 

1 Mistake for weeks. 



JFC 



^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



You sea. Madam, the truth c^f the Frencli maxun, le vrai n'est pas 
toiijoiirs le vraiseinblable. Your last was so full of expostulation, and 
was something so like the language of an offended friend, that 1 began to 
tremble for a correspondence which 1 had with grateful pleasure set down 
as one of the greatest enjoyments of my future life. 

Your books have delighted me ; Virgil, Dryden, and Tasso, were all 
equally strangers to me ; but of this more at large in my next. 

R. B. 




m-. CXLII. 
TO PROFESSOR STEWART. 
Sir, Mauchline, s^yl/^jy, 1788. 

1 enclose you one or two more of my bagatelles. If the fervent 
wishes of honest gratitude have any influence with that great unknown 
Being who frames the chain of causes and events, prosperity and happiness 
will attend your visit to the continent, and return }ou safe to your native 
shore. 

Wherever I am, allow me. Sir, to claim it as my privilege to acquaint 
}ou with my progress in my trade of rhymes ; as I am siu'e I could say it 
with truth, that, next to my little fame, and the having it in my power to 
make life more comfortable to those whom nature has made dear to me, 
I shall ever regard your countenance, your patronage, your friendly good 
offices, as the most valued consequence of my late success in life. 

R. B. 



No. CXLIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Madam, Mauchline, i,th May, 1788. 

Dryden's Virgil has delighted me. 1 do not know whether the 
critics will agree with me, but the Georgics are to me by far the best of 
Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing entirely new to me, and has 
filled my head with a thousand fancies of emulation : but, alas ! when I 
read the Georgics, and then survey my own powers, 'tis like the idea of a 
Shetland pony, drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, to start 
for the plate. I own I am disappointed in the .-Eneid. Faultless correct- 
ness may please, and does highly please, the lettered critic ; but to that 
awful character I have not the most distant pretensions. I do not know 
whether I do not hazard my pretensions to be a critic of any kind, when I 
say that I think Virgil, in many instances, a servile copier of Homer. If 
I had the Odyssey by me, I could parallel many passages where Virgil 
has evidently copied, but by no means improved, Homer. Nor can I 
think there is anvth'ng of this owing to the translators : for, from every- 
thing I have seen of Dryden, I think him, in genius and fluency of 
language. Pope's master. I have not perused Tasso enough to form an 




'^ 



414 THE LETTERS OF BURKS. 

opinion — in some future letter you shall have my ideas of him : thousli I 
am conscious my criticisms must be very inaccurate and imperfect, as theie 
I have ever felt and lamented my want of learning most. — R. B. 



No. CXLIV. 

TO MR. SAMUEL BROWN. 

DEX.R Uncle, Mossgiel, 4M J/aj/, 1788. 

This I hope will find you and your conjugal yokefellow in your 

good old way. I am impatient to know if the Ailsa fowling be commenced 

for this season yet, as I want three or four stones of feathers, and I hope 

you will bespeak them for me. It would be a vain attempt for me to 

enumerate the various transactions I have been engaged in since I saw 

you last, but this know, I engaged in a simtggling trade, and God knows 

if ever any poor man experienced better returns ■ — two for one ; but as 

freight and delivery have turned out so dear, I am thinking of taking out 

a licence and beginning in fair trade. I have taken a farm on the borders 

of the Nith, and, in imitation of the old patriarchs, get men-servants and 

maid-servants, and flocks and herds, and beget sons and daughters. 

Your obedient Nephew, 

R. B. 
No. CXLV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

My dear Friend, MAucHUNE.yi/a^ 26, 178S. 

I am two kind letters in your debt ; but I have been from home, 
and horridly busy, buying and preparing for my farming business, over 
and above the plague of my Excise instructions, which this week will 
finish. 

As I flatter my wishes that I foresee many future years' correspondence 
between us, 'tis foolish to talk of excusing dull epistles : a dull letter may 
be a very kind one. I have the pleasure to tell you that I have been 
extremely fortunate in all my buyings and bargainings hitherto — Mrs. 
Burns [Jean Armour] not excepted ; which title I now avow to the world. 
I am truly pleased with this last affair; it has indeed added to my 
anxieties for futurity, but it has given a stability to my mind and reso- 
lutions unknown before ; and the poor girl has the most sacred enthusiasm 
of attachment to me, and has not a wish but to gratify my every idea of her 
deportment. I am interrupted. Farewell, my dear Sir. — R. B. 



No. CXLVI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Madam, -^t-'' -'^«.y. ^788. 

I have been torturing my philosophy to no purpose, to account for 
that kind partiality of yours, which has followed me, in my return to the 



^-. 




'K 



T=f 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



shade of life, with assiduous benevolence. Often did I regret, in the 
fleeting hours of my late will-o'-wisp appearance, that " here I had no con- 
tinuing city ; '" and, but for the consolation of a few solid guineas, could 
almost lament the time that a momentary acquaintance with wealth and 
splendour put me so much out of conceit with the sworn companions ot 
my road through life — insigniticance and poverty. 

There are few circumstances relating to the unequal distribution of the 
good things of this life that give me more vexation (I mean in what I see 
around me) than the importance the opulent bestow on their trifling 
family affairs, compared with the very same things on the contracted 
scale of a cottage. Last afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or 
two at a good woman's fireside, where the planks that compose the floor 
were decorated with a splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled with 
silver and china. 'Tis now about term-day, and there has been a revolu- 
tion among those creatures, who, though in appearance partakers, and 
equally noble partakers, of the same nature with Madam, are from time to 
time — their nerves, their sinews, their health, strength, wisdom, experience, 
genius, time, nay a good part of their very thoughts — sold for months and 
years, not only to the necessities, the conveniences, but the caprices of the 
important few. We talked of the insignificant creatures ; nay, notwith- 
standing their general stupidity and rascality, did some of the poor devils 
the honour to commend them. But light be the turf upon his breast who 
taught " Reverence thyself We looked down on the unpolished wretches, 
their impertinent wives and clouterly brats, as the lordly bull does on the 
little dirty ant-hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in the carelessness 
of his ramble, or tosses in the air in the wantonness of his pride. — R. B. 

No. CXLVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

AT MR. DUNLOP'S, HADDINGTON. 

[Burns was now fairly established at Ellisland, getting the farm in order, and 
superintending the erection of a new house. He was alone, vexed with present 
cares and anxieties for the future, and miserably lodged. In building his farm- 
house, Burns had, according to Allan Cunningham, to perform the part of super- 
intendent of the works — to dig the foundations, collect the stones, seek the sand^ 
cart the lime, and see that all was performed according to the specifications.] 

Ellisland, 13M '\_\^th>'\ June, 1788. 
"Where'er I roam, whatever realms I see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee; 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags, at each remove, a lengthen'd chain." 



Goldsmith. 



This is the second day, my honoured friend, that I have been on my 
farm. A solitary inmate of an old, smoky spence ; far from every object 
I love, or by whom I am beloved ; nor any acquaintance older than 
yesterday, except Jenny Geddes, the old mare I ride on ; while uncouth 



S 





% 



THE LErrERS OE BURXS. 



cares and novel plans, hourly insult my awkward ignorance and bashful in- 
experience. There is a foggy atmosphere native to my soul in the hour 
of care, consequently the dreary objects seem larger than the life. Extreme 
sensibility, irritated and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a series of 
misfortunes and disappointments, at that period of my existence when the 
soul is laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, is, I believe, the 
principal cause of this unhappy frame of mind. 

" The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he regard his single woes? &c." 

Your surmise. Madam, is just; I am indeed a husband. . . . 

To jealousy or infidelity I am an equal stranger. My preservative from 
the first is the most thorough consciousness of her sentiments of honour, 
and her attachment to me : my antidote against the last is my long and 
deep-rooted affection for her. 

In housewife matters, of aptness to learn and activity to execute she 
is eminently mistress ; and during my absence in Nithsdale, she is 
regularly and constantly apprentice to my mother and sisters in their 
dairy and other rural business. 

The Muses must not be offended when I tell them the concerns of my 
wife and family will, in my mind, always take the pasi laut I assure them 
their ladyships will ever come next in place. 

You are right that a bachelor state would have insured me more 
friends ; but. from a cause you will easily guess, conscious peace in the 
enjoyment of my own mind, and unmistrusting confidence in approaching 
my God, would seldom have been of the number. 

I found a once much-loved and still much-loved female, literally and 
truly cast out to the mercy of the naked elements ; but 1 enabled her to 
purchase a shelter — there is no sporting with a fellow-creature's happiness 
or misery. 

The most placid good-nature and sweetness of disposition ; a warm 
heart, gratefully devoted with all its powers to love me ; vigorous health 
and sprightly cheerfulness, set off" to the best advantage by a more 
than commonly handsome figure ; these, I think, in a woman, may make 
a good wife, though she should never have read a page but the Scriptures 
of the Old and New Testament, nor have danced in a brighter assembly 
than a penny pay wedding. — R. B. 



No. CXLVIII. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, June 14 [15?]. 17SS. 

This is now the third day, my dearest Sir. that I have sojourned in 
these regions ; and during these three days you have occupied more of my 
thoughts than in three weeks preceding : in Ayrshire I have several 
variations of friendship's compass, here it points invariable to the pole. 
My farm -jives rne a good many uncouth cares and anxieties, but I hate 




w 



THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 4 1 7 

the language of complaint. Job, or some one of his friends, says well — 
"Why should a living man complain? " 

I have lately been much mortified with contemplating an unlucky im- 
perfection in the very framing and construction of my'soul ; namely, a 
blundering inaccuracy of her olfactory organs in hitting the scent of craft 
or design in my fellow-creatures. I do not mean any compliment to my 
ingcnuiiusness. or to hint that the defect is in consequence of the unsus- 
picious simplicitv of conscious truth and honour : I take it to be, in some 
way or other, an imperfection in the mental sight; or, metaphor apart, 
some modification of dulness. In two or three instances lately I have 
been most shamefully out. 

I have all along hitherto, in the warfare of life, been bred to arms among 
the light-horse — the picket-guards of fancy — a kind of hussars and High- 
landers of the brain ; but I am firmly resolved to sell out of these giddy 
battalions, who have no ideas of a battle but fighting the foe, or of a siege 
but storming the town. Cost what it will, I am determined to buy in 
among the grave squadrons of heavy-armed thought, or the artillery corps 
of plodding contrivance. 

What books are j'ou reading, or what is the subject of your thoughts, 
besides the great studies of your profession? You said something about 
religion in your last. I don't exactly remember what it was, as the letter 
is in Ayrshire : but 1 thought it not only prettily said, but nobly thought. 
You will make a noble fellow if once you were married. I make no reser- 
vation of your being well married : you have so much sense and knowledge 
of human nature, that, though you may not realize perhaps the ideas of 
romance, yet you will never be ill married. 

Were it not for the terrors of my ticklish situation respecting provision 
for a family of children, I am decidely of opinion that the step I have 
taken is vastly for my happiness. As it is, I look to the Excise scheme 
as a certainty of maintenance. A maintenance ! — luxur\-, to what either 
Mrs. Burns or I was born to. Adieu ! — R. B. 



No. CXLIX. 
EXTRACT P^ROM COMMONPLACE BOOK. 

Ellisi-and, S:i>uiay, 14M [15M.?] 77ine, 1788.1 

This is now the third day that I have been in this country. " Lord ! 
what is man ? " What a bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, ideas, 
and fancies ! And what a capricious kind of existence he has here ! . . . 
There is indeed an elsewhere, where, as Thomson sajs, virtue sole 
survives. 

" Tell us, ye dead; 

Will none of you in pity disclose the secret. 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be? 

— ^ ; A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close." 

' Mr. R. Chambers suggests that the 14th of June, 1788, having been a Saturday, it may be 
surmised that Burns wrote several dates at this time a day too early. 




e 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



I am such a coward in life, so tired of the service, that I would almost at 
any time witli Milton's Adam, "gladly lay me in my mother's lap, and be 
at peace." 

But a wife and children bind me to struggle with the stream, till some 
sudden squall shall overset the silly vessel ; or, in the listless return of 
years, its own craziness reduce it to a wreck. Farewell now to those giddy 
follies, those varnished vices, which, though half sanctified by the bewitch- 
ing levity of wit and humour, are at best but thriftless idling with the 
precious current of existence; nay, often poisoning the whole, that, like 
the plains of Jericho, the water is naught and the ground barren, and 
nothing short of a supernaturally-gifted Elisha can ever after heal the evils. 

Wedlock — the circumstance that buckles me hardest to care — if virtue 
and religion were to be anything with me but names, was what in a few 
seasons 1 must have resolved on : in my present situation it was absolutely 
necessary. Humanity, generosity, honest pride of character, justice to my 
own happiness for after life, so far as it could depend (which it surely will 
a great deal) on internal peace ; all these joined their warmest suffrages, 
their most powerful solicitations, with a rooted attachment, to urge the 
step I have taken. Nor have I any reason on her part to repent it. 1 
can fancy how, but have never seen where, I could have made a better 
choice. Come, then, let me act up to my favourite motto, that glorious 
passage in Young — 

" On reason build resolve, 
That column of true majesty in man ! " 



No. CL. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

My dear Sir, Elusland, 30M 7""e, 1788. 

I just now received your brief epistle ; and, to take vengeance on 
your laziness, I have, you see, taken a long sheet of writing-paper, and 
have begun at the top of the page, intending to scribble on to the very 
last corner. 

I am ve.xed at that affair of the . . . , but dare not enlarge on the 
subject until you send me your direction, as I suppose that will be altered 
on your late master and friend's death [Mr. Samuel Mitchelson, W.S.] 
I am concerned for the old fellow's exit only as I fear it may be to your 
disadvantage in any respect ; for an old man's dying, except he have 
been a very benevolent character, or in some particular situation of life 
that the welfare of the poor or the helpless depended on him, I think it an 
event of the most trifling moment to the world. Man is naturally a kind, 
benevolent animal, but he is dropped into such a needy situation here in 
this vexatious world, and has such a whoreson, hungry, growling, multi- 
plying pack of necessities, appetites, passions, and desires about him, 
ready to devour him for want of other food, that in fact he must lay aside 
his cares for others that he may look properly to himself. 




• THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 419 

I desire the carrier to pay you ; but as I mentioned only fifteen shillings 
to him, I will rather enclose you a guinea-note. I have it not, indeed, 
to spare here, as 1 am only a sojourner in a strange land in this place ; 
but in a day or two I return to Mauchline, and there 1 have the bank- 
notes through the house like salt-permits. 

There is a great degree of folly in talking unnecessarily of one's private 
aflairs. I have just now been interrupted by one of my new neighbours, 
who has made himself absolutely contemptible in my eyes by his silly 
garrulous pruriency. I know it has been a fault of my own too ; but from 
this moment I abjure it as I would the service of hell ! Your poets, 
spendthrifts, and other fools of that kidney, pretend, forsooth, to crack 
their jokes on prudence : but 'tis a squalid vagabond glorying in his rags. 
Still, imprudence respecting money matters is much more pardonable than 
imprudence respecting character. I have no objection to prefer prod- 
igality to avarice in some few instances ; but I apjDeal to your observation 
if you have not met, and often met, with the same disingenuousness, the 
same hollow-hearted insincerity and disintegrative depravity of principle, 
in the hackneyed victims of profusion as in the unfeeling children of 
parsimony. I have every possible reverence for the much-talked-of world 
beyond the grave, and I wish that which piety believes and virtue 
deserves may be all matter of fact. But in things belonging to and 
terminating in this present scene of existence man has serious and 
interesting business on hand. Whether a man shall shake hands with 
welcome in the distinguished elevation of respect, or shrink from contempt 
in the abject corner of insignificance ; whether he shall wanton under the 
tropic of plenty — at least enjoy himself in the comfortable latitude of easy 
convenience — or starve in the arctic circle of dreary poverty ; whether he 
shall rise in a manly consciousness of a self-approving mind, or sink 
beneath a galling load of regret and remorse — these are alternatives of 
the last moment. 

You see how 1 preach. You used occasionally to sermonize too; 1 
wish you would in charity favour me with a sheet full in vour own way 
I admire the close of a letter Lord Bolingbroke writes to Dean Swift : — 
" Adieu, dear Swift ! with all thy faults 1 love thee entirely ; make an effort 
to love me with all mine I " Humble ser\ant, and all that trumperv, is 
now such a prostituted business, that honest friendship, in her sincere way, 
must have recourse to her primitive, simple. Farewell I — R. B. 



Xo. CLI. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

[Mr. Peter Hill, Creech's chief assistant, who had now set up in business for 
himself.^ 

Macchmne, x-ith July, 1788. 

Yol' injured me, my dear Sir, in your construction of the cause of my 
silence. From Ellisland in Nithsdale to Mauchline in Kyle is forty and 




^= 





-^ 



^ 



rJ/£ LETTERS OF BURNS. 



five miles. There a house a-building, and farm enclosures and improve- 
ments to tend ; here a new — not indeed so much a neiu as a voting wife : 
good God, Sir, could my dearest brother expect a regular correspondence 
from me ! ... I am certain that my liberal-minded and much-respected 
friend would have acquitted me, though I had obeyed to the very letter 
that famous statute among the irrevocable decrees of the Medes and 
Persians, not to ask petition, for forty days, of either God or man, save 
thee, O Queen, only ! 

I am highly obliged to \ou, my dearest Sir, for Nour kind, your elegant, 
compliments on my becoming one of that most respectable, that truly 
venerable, corps, tliey who are, without a metaphor, the fathers of 
posterity. . . . 

Your book came safe, and 1 am going to trouble you with further com- 
missions. 1 call it troubling you — because 1 want only books: the 
.cheapest way the best; so you may have to hunt for them in the evening 
auctions. I want Smollett's works, for the sake of his incomparable 
humour. I have already "Roderick Random"' and " Humphrey Clinker ;" 
"Peregrine Pickle." "Launcelot Greaves," and "Ferdinand Count Fathom," 
1 still want ; but, as 1 said, the veriest ordinary copies will serve me. I am 
nice only in the appearance of my poets. I forget the price of "Cowper's 
Poems," but I believe I must have them. 1 saw the other day proposals for a 
publication entitled " Banks's New and Complete Christian's Family Bible," 
printed for C. Cooke, Paternoster Row, London. He promises at least 
to give in the work, I think it is, three hundred and odd engravings, to 
which he has put the names of the first artists in London. You will 
know the character of the performance, as some numbers of it are 
published : and if it is really what it pretends to be, set me down as a 
subscriber, and send me the published numbers. 

Let me hear from you your first leisure minute, and trust me you shall 
in future have no reason to complain of my silence. The dazzling per- 
plexity of no\'elt\' will dissipate, and leave me to pursue my course in the 
quiet path of methodical routine. — R. B. 



No. CLIL 
TO MR. GEORGE LOCKHART, 

MERCHANT, GLASCOW. 

My dear Sir. Mauchune, ^zth juiy, 1788. 

I am just going for Nithsdale, else 1 would certainly have tran- 
scribed some of my rhyming things for you. The Miss Baillies I have 
seen in Edinburgh. " Fair and lovely are thy works. Lord God Almighty! 
Who would not praise Thee for these Thy gifts in Thy goodness to the 
sons of men?" It needed not your fine taste to admire them. 1 declare, 
one dav I had the honour of dining at Mr. Bailii /s. 1 was almost in the 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



421 



predicament of the children of Israel, when they could not look on Moses" 
face for the glory that shone in it when he descended from Mount Sinai. 

I did once write a poetic address from the Palls of Bruar to his Grace 
of Athole when 1 was in the Highlands. When you return to Scotland 
let me know, and I will send such of m\- pieces as please myself best, i 
return to Mauchline in about ten days. 
My compliments to Mr. Purden. 

I am in truth, but at present in haste, yours, 

R. B. 



No. CLIII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Honoured Madam, Mauchline, /i?<^«.9^ 2, 1788. 

Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight to Ayrshire. I am 

indeed seriously angry with you at the quantum of your luckpenny ; but 

vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help laughing very heartily at the 

nol)le lord's apology for the missed napkin. 

I would write to you from Nithsdale, and give you my direction there, 
but I have scarce an opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a 
fortnight. I am six miles from Dumfries, am scarcely ever in it myself, 
and as yet have little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Besides, I am 
now very busy on my farm, building a dwelling-house ; as at present I am 
almost an evangelical man in Nithsdale, for I have scarce "where to lay 
my head." 

There are some passages in your last that brought tears in my eyes. 
"The heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not 
therewith." The repository of these " sorrows of the heart" is a kind of 
sanctum sanctoricin ; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that, too, at 
particular sacred times, who dares enter into them : 

" Heaven oft tears the bosom-chords 
That nature finest strung." 

You will excuse this quotation for the sake of the author. Instead of 
entering on this subject farther, I shall transcribe you a few lines I wrote 
in a hermitage belonging to a gentleman in my Nithsdale neighbourhood. 
They are almost the only favours the Muses have conferred on me in that 
country 

[Here follow the verses composed in the Friars' Carse Hermitage, given in page 82.] 

Since I am in the way of transcribing, the following were the production 
of yesterday, as I jogged through the wild hills of New Cumnock. I intend 
inserting them, or something like them, in an epistle I am going to write 
to the gentleman on whose friendship my Excise hopes depend — Mr. 
(irafam of Fintry, one of the worthiest and most accomplished gendemen 
not only of this country, but, I will dare to say it, of this age. The 



42 2 THE LE TTEKS OE B URNS. 



following are just the first crude thoughts " unhouserd, unanointed, 
unaneaPd : " — 

Pity the tuneful Mus^' helpless train; 

Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ; 

The world were blest, did bliss on them depend; 

Ah, that " the friendly e'er should want a friend! " 

The little fate bestows they share as soon; 

Unlike sage, proverb'd wisdom's hard-wrung boon. 

Let Prudence number o'er each sturdy son 

Who life and wisdom at one race begun, , 

Who feel by reason and who give by rule; 

Instinct's a brute and sentiment a fool ! 

Who make poor ruill do wait upon I should: 

We own they're prudent, but who owns they're good? 

Ye wise ones, hence! ye hurt the social eye; 
God's image rudely etched on base alloy ! 
But come .... 

Here the Muse left me. I am astonished at what you tell me of 
Anthony's writing me. I never received it. Poor fellow ! you vex me 
much by telling me that he is unfortunate. I shall be in Ayrshire in ten 
davs from this date. I have just room for an old Roman " Farewell." 

R. B. 



No. CLIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, August [7«;r/] lo, 1788. 

My much honoured Friend, 

Yours of the 24th June is before me. I found it, as well as another 
valued friend — my wife — waiting to welcome me to Ayrshire : I met both 
with the sincerest pleasure. 

When 1 write you. Madam, I do not set down to answer every para- 
graph of yours, by echoing every sentiment, like the faithful Commons of 
Great Britain in Parliament assembled answering a speech from the best 
of kings. I express myself in the fulness of my heart, and may perhaps 
be guilty of neglecting some of your kind inquiries ; but not from your 
very odd reason, that" I do not read your letters. All your epistles for 
several months ha\'e cost me nothing except a swelling throb of gratitude 
or a deep-felt sentiment of veneration. 

Mrs. Burns, Madam, is the identical woman . . . When she 
first found herself " as women wish to be who love their lords," as I loved 
her nearly to distraction, we took steps for a private marriage. Her 
parents got the hint ; and not only forbade me her company and their 
house, but, on my rumoured West Indian voyage, got a warrant to put me 
in jail till I should find security in my about-to-be paternal relation. You 
know my lucky reverse of fortune. On my cclatant return to Mauchline 
I was made very welcome to visit my girl. The usual consequences began 
to betray her; and as I was at that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, 
she was turned, literally turned, out of doors, and I wrote to a friend 
to shelier her till ray retur.i, when our marriage was declared. Her 





THE LETTERS OE BURXS. 



happiness or misery was in my hands, and wlio could trifle with such a 
deposit? . 

I can easily fancy a more agreeable companion for my journey of life : 
but, upon my honour, I have never seen the individual instance. 

Circumstanced as I am, I could never have got a female partner for life 
who could have entered into my favourite studies, relished my favourite 
authors, &c., without probably entailing on me, at the same time, expensive 
living, fantastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all the other 
blessed boarding-school acquirements, which {pardomics inoi, madanie) 
are sometimes to be found among females of the upper ranks, but almost 
universally pervade the misses of the would-be gentry 

I like your way in your churchyard lucubrations. Thoughts that are 
the spontaneous result of accidental situations, either respecting health, 
place, or company, have often a strength, and always an originality, that 
would in vain be looked for in fancied circumstances and studied para- 
graphs. P"or me, I have often thought of keeping a letter in progression 
by me, to send you when the sheet was written out. Now I talk of sheets, 
I nmst tell you my reason for writing to you on paper of this kind is my 
pruriency of writing to you at large. A page of post is on such a dis- 
social, narrow-minded scale, that I cannot abide it; and double letters, at 
least in my miscellaneous reverie manner are a monstrous tax in a close 
correspondence. — R. B. 




No. CLV. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, \(ith August, 1788. 

I AM in a fine disposition, my honoured friend, to send you an elegiac 
epistle, and want only genius to make it quite Shenstonian : — 

" Why droops my heart, with fancied woes forlorn? 
Why sinks my soul beneath each wintry sky? " 

My increasing cares in this as yet strange country — gloomy conjectures 
in the dark vista of futurity — consciousness of my own inability for the 
struggle of the world — my broadened mark to misfortune in a wife and 
•children — I could indulge these reflections till my humour should ferment 
into the most acid chagrin, that would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings I have sat down to write to you; 
as I declare upon my soul I alwa\'s find that the most sovereign balm for 
my wounded spirit. 

I was yesterday at Mr. Miller's [of Dalswinton] to dinner, for the first 
time. My reception was quite to my mind ; from the lady of the house 
quite flattering. She sometimes hits on a couplet or two iinpromptii. 
She repeated one or two, to the admiration of all present. My suiTrage as 
a professional man was expected : I for once went agonizing over the 
belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my adored household gods. 



FF^- 



.b£. 



w 



424 77//i LETTERS OF BUKXS. 




independence of spirit and integrity of soul ! In the course of conversa- 
tion "Johnson's Musical Museum," a collection of Scottish songs with the 
music, was talked of. We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning — 

" Ravini^ winds around her blowing." 

The air was much admired : the lady of the house asked me whose were 
the words. " Mine, Madam ; they are indeed my very best verses : " she 
took not the smallest notice of them ! The old Scottish proverb says well, 
" King's caff is better than ither folks' corn." I was going to make a New 
Testament quotation about " casting pearls,"' but that would be too viru- 
lent, for the lady is actually a woman of sense and taste. . . . 

After all that has been said on the other side of the question, man is by 
no means a happy creature. I do not speak of the selected few, favoured 
by partial Heaven, whose souls are tuned to gladness amid riches, anrl 
honours, and prudence, and wisdom. I speak of the neglected many, 
whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days, are sold to the minions of 
fortune. 

If I thought you had never seen it, I would transcribe for you a stanza 
of an old Scottish ballad, called " The Life and Age of Man," beginning 
thus : — 

" 'Twas in the sixteen hundredth year 
Of God and fifty-three 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 
As writings testifie." 

I had an old grand-uncle, with whom my mother lived a while in her 
girlish years : the good old man, for such he was, was long blind ere he 
died, during which time his highest enjoyment was to sit down and cry, 
while my mother would sing the simple old song of " The Life and Age 
of Man." 

It is this way of thinking, it is these melancholy tmths, that make re- 
ligion so precious to the poor miserable children of men. If it is a mere 
phantom, existing only in the heated imagination of enthusiasm, 

" What truth on earth so precious as the lie? " 

My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little sceptical, but the neces- 
sities of my heart give the cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks for 
the heart weaned from earth ; the soul affianced to her God ; the corre- 
spondence fixed with heaven ; the pious supplication and devout thanks- 
giving, constant as the vicissitudes of even and morn ; who thinks to meet 
with these in the court, the palace, in the glare of public life? No: to 
find them in their precious importance and divine efficacy, we must search 
among the obscure recesses of disappointment, affliction, poverty, and 
distress. 

I am sure, dear Madam, you are now more than pleased with the length 
of my letters. I return to Ayrshire middle of next week: and it quickens 
my pace to think that there will be a letter from you awaiting me there. I 
must be here again very soon for my harvest. — R. B. 




^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 425 



No. CLVI. 
TO MR. BEUGO, 

ENGRAVER, EDINBURGH. 
My dear Sir, Ellisland, ()th Sept., 1788. 

There is not in Edinburgh above the number of the Graces whose 
letters would have given me so much pleasure as yours of the 3d instant, 
which only reached me yesternight. 

I am here on my farm, busy with my harvest; but for all that most 
pleasurable part of life called social communication, I am here at the 
very elbow of existence. The only things that are to be found in this 
country, in any degree of perfection, are stupidity and canting. Prose 
they only know in graces, prayers, &c., and the value of these they estimate, 
as they do their plaiding webs, by the ell. As for the Muses, they have 
as much an idea of a rhinoceros as of a poet. For my old capricious but 
good-natured hussy of a Muse — 

" By banks of Nith I sat and wept 
When Coila I thought on: 
In midst thereof I hung my harp 
The willow trees upon." 

•I am generally about half my time in Ayrshire with my "darling Jean;" 
and then I, at lucid intervals, throw my horny fist across my becobwebbed 
lyre, much in the same manner as an old wife throws her hand across the 
spokes of her spinning-wheel. 

I will send you the "Fortunate Shepherdess" as soon as I return to 
Ayrshire, for there I keep it with other precious treasure. I shall send it 
by a careful hand, as I would not for anything it should be mislaid or lost. 
I do not wish to serve you from any benevolence, or other grave Christian 
virtue ; His purely a selfish gratification of mv own feelings whenever I 
think of you. 

You do not tell me if you are going to be married. Depend upon it, if 
you do not make some foolish choice, it will be a very great improvement 
on the dish of life. I can speak from experience, though, God knows, my 
choice was as random as blind-man's buit. ... 

If your better functions would give you leisure to write me, I should 
be extremely happy ; that is to say, if }ou neither keep nor look for a regu- 
lar correspondence. I hate the idea of being obUged to write a letter. I 
sometimes write a friend twice a week, at other times once a quarter. 

I am exceedingly pleased with your fancy in making the author you 
mention place a map of Iceland instead of his portrait before his works ; 
'twas a glorious idea.' 

Could you conveniendy do one thing? — whenever you finish any head, 
I should like to have a proof-copy of it. I might tell you a long story about 

1 It has been suggested that the work in question was a collection of articles in a very frigid 
style by Creech. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



your fine genius ; but as wliat everybody knows cannot have escaped you, 
I shall not say one syllable about it. 

If you see Mr. Nasmyth, remember me to him most respectfully, as he 
both loves and deserves respect ; though, if he would pay less respect to 
the mere carcass of greatness, I should think him much nearer perfection. 

R. B. 



No. CLVII. 
TO MISS CHALMERS, 

EDINBL-RCH. 

Ellisland, near Dumfries, Sept. i6, 1788. 

Where are you? and how are you? and is Lady Mackenzie recovering 
her health ? — for I have had but one solitary letter from you. I will not 
think you have forgot me. Madam ; and for my part 

" When thee, Jerusalem, 1 forget, 
Skill part from my right hand! " 

" My heart is not of that rock, nor my soul careless as that sea." I do not 
make my progress among mankind as a bowl does among its fellows — 
rolling through the crowd without bearing away any mark or impression, 
except where they hit in hostile collision. 

I am here, driven in with my harvest-folks by bad weather ; and as you 
and your sister once did me the honour of interesting yourselves much a 
r cgard de inoi, I sit down to beg the continuation of your goodness. I can 
truly say that, all the exterior of life apart, I never saw two whose esteem 
flattered the nobler feelings of my soul — I will not say more, but so much, 
as Lady Mackenzie and Aliss Chalmers. When I think of you — 'hearts 
the best, minds the noblest, of human kind — unfortunate even in the 
shades of life — when I think I have met with you, and have lived more of 
real life with you in eight days than I can do with almost anybody I meet 
with in eight years — when I think on the improbability of meeting you in 
this world again — I could sit down and cry like a child! If ever you 
honoured me with a place in your esteem, I trust I can now plead more 
desert. I am secure against that crushing grip of iron poverty, which, 
alas ! is less or more fatal to the native worth and purity of, I fear, the 
noblest souls ; and a late important step in my life has kindly taken me 
out of the way of those ungrateful iniquities, which, however overlooked 
in fashionable' license or varnished in fashionable phrase, are indeed but 
lighter and deeper shades of villany. 

Shortly after my last return to A}'rshire 1 married " my Jean.'' This was 
not in consequence of the attachment of roniance, perhaps ; but I had a 
long and much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery in my determi- 
nation, and I durst not trifle with so important a deposit. Nor have I any 
cause to repent it. If I have not got polite tattle, modish manners, and 
fashionable dress, I am not sickened and disgusted with the multiform 





s 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 427 

curse of boarding-school affectation ; and I have got the handsomest figure, 
the sweetest temper, the soundest constitution, and the kindest heart in the 
county. Mrs Burns beHeves, as firmly as her creed, that I am le plus bel 
esprit et le plus hormete honune in the universe, although she scarcely 
^■ver in her life, except the Scriptures of the Old and New Testament and 
the Psalms of David in metre, spent five minutes together on either prose 
or verse. I must except also from this last a certain late publication of 
Scots poems, which she has perused very devoutly, and all the ballads in 
the country, as she has (" Oh, the partial lover! "' you will cry) the finest 
••wood-note wild" 1 ever heard. I am the more particular in this lady's 
character, as I know she will henceforth have the honour of a share in your 
best wishes. She is still at Mauchline, as I am building my house ; for 
this hovel that I shelter in, while occasionally here, is pervious to every 
blast that blows and every shower that falls ; and I am only preserved 
from being chilled to death by being suffocated with smoke. I do not find 
my farm that pennyworth I was taught to expect ; but I believe in time it 
may be a saving bargain. You will be pleased to hear that I have laid 
aside idle eclat, and bind every day after my reapers. 

To save me from that horrid situation of at any time going down, in a 
losing bargain of a farm, to misery, I have taken my Excise'instructions, 
and have my commission in my pocket for any emergency of fortune. If 
I could set all before your view, whatever disrespect you, in common with 
the world, have for this business, I know you would approve of my idea. 

I will make no apology, clear Madam, for this egotistic detail ; I 
know you and your sister will be interested in every circumstance of it. 
What signify the silly, idle gewgaws of wealth, or the ideal trumpery of 
greatness ! When fellow-partakers of the same nature fear the .same 
God, have the same benevolence of heart, the same nobleness of soul, 
the same detestation at everything dishonest, and the same scorn at 
everything unworthy — if they are not in the dependence of absolute 
beggary, in the name of common sense, are they not equals? And if the 
bias, the instinctive bias, of their soul run the same way, why may they 
not be friends ? 

When I may have an opportunity of sending this Heaven only knows. 
Shenstone says: "When one is confined idle within doors by bad 
weather, the best antidote against etimti is to read the letters of or write 
to one's friends : " in that case, then, if the weather continues thus, I may 
scrawl you half a quire. 

1 very lately — namely, since harvest began — wrote a poem, not in 
imitation, but in the manner, of Pope's " Moral Epistles." It is only a 
short essay, just to try the sti-ength of my Muse's pinion in that way. I 
will send you a copy of it when once I have heard from you. I have 
likewise been laying the foundation of some pretty large poetic works : 
how the superstructure will come on I leave to that great maker and 
marrer of projects — time. Johnson's collection of Scots songs is going 
on in the third volume ; and, of consequence, finds me a consumpt for a 
great deal of idltj metre. One of the most tolerable things I have clone 
in that way is two stanzas I made to an air a musical gentleman of 



7=1- 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



my acquaintance [Captain Riddell of Glenriddell] composed for the 
anniversary of his wedding-day, which happens on the 7th of November. 
Take it as follows : — 

[Here comes "The day returns, my bosom burns.'] 

I shall give over this letter for shame. If I should be seized with a 
scribbling fit before this goes away, I shall make it another letter ; and 
then you may allow your patience a week's respite between the two. I 
have not room for more than the old, kind, hearty Farewell! 

To make some amends, 7nes c/ilres //lesda/nes, for dragging you on to 
this second sheet, and to relieve a little the tiresomeness of my unstudied 
and uncorrectible prose, I shall transcribe you some of my late poetic 
bagatelles ; though I have, these eight or ten months, done very little that 
way. One day, in a hermitage on the banks of the Nith, belonging to a 
gentleman in my neighbourhood, who is so good as give me a key 
at pleasure, I wrote as follows, ["Friars' Carse Hermitage,"] supposing 
myself the sequestered, venerable inhabitant of the lonely mansion. . . . 

R. B. 



No. CLVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

OF DUNLUP. 

Mauchline, 2jtk Se/>t., 1788. 

I HAVE received twins, dear Madam, more than once, but scarcely ever 
with more pleasure than when I received yours of the 12th instant. To 
make myself understood : I had wrote to Mr. Graham, enclosing my 
poem addressed to him, and the same post which favoured me with yours 
brought me an answer from him. It was dated the very day he had 
received mine ; and I am quite at a loss to say whether it was most polite 
or kind. 

Your criticisms, my honoured benefactress, are truly the work of a 
friend. They are not the blasting depredations of a canker-toothed, 
caterpillar critic ; nor are they the fair statement of cold impartiality, 
balancing with unfeeling exactitude the pro and con of an author's merits : 
they are the judicious observations of animated friendship, selecting the 
beauties of the piece. I am just arrived from Nithsdale, and will be here a 
fortnight.- I was on horseback this morning by three o'clock : for between 
my wife and my farm is just forty-six miles. As I jogged on in the dark, 
I was taken with a poetic fit as follows : ■ — 

[Here is transcribed Mrs. Fergusson of Craigdarroch's lamentation for the death 
of her son — an uncommonly promising youth of eighteen or nineteen years of age.^] 

1 "The Mother's Lament" served a double purpose, having been first Y"tten in reference to 
young Fergusson, and then applied to the death of Alexander Gordon Stewart, only son of Mrs. 
Stewart of Afton, Burns's early patroness. 



^ 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 429 



No. CLIX. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Mauchline, \st October, 1788. 

I HAVE been here in this country about three days, and all that time my 
chief reading has been the "Address to Lochlomond " [by the Rev. Dr. 
Cririe] you were so obliging as to send to me. Were I empannelled one 
of the author's jury, to determinate his criminality respecting the sin of 
poesy, my verdict should be " Guilty ! A poet of Nature's making ! " It 
IS an excellent method for improvement, and what I believe every poet 
does, to place some favourite classic author, in his own walks of study 
and composition, before him as a model. Though your author had not 
mentioned the name, I could have, at half a glance, guessed his model to 
be Thomson. Will my brother poet forgive me if I venture to hint that 
his imitation of that immortal bard is in two or three places rather more 
servile than such a genius as his required? — e.g. 

" To soothe the maddening passions all to peace." 

Address. 
" To soothe the throbbing passions into peace." 

Thomson. 

I think the " Address " is in simplicity, harmony, and elegance of versifi- 
cation, fully equal to the " Seasons." Like Thomson, too, he has looked 
into nature for himself: you meet with no copied description. One 
particular criticism I made at first reading: in no one instance has he 
said too much. He never flags in his progress, but, like a true poet of 
Nature's making, kindles in his course. His beginning is simple and 
modest, as if distrustful of the strength of his pinion; only I do not 
altogether like — 



-"Truth, 



The soul of every song that's nobly great.' 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is nobly great. Perhaps I am 
wrong : this may be but a prose criticism. Is not the phrase in line 7, 
page 6, "Great lake," too much vulgarized by every-day language for so 
sublime a poem ? 

" Great mass of waters, theme for nobler song," 

is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of a comparison with other 
lakes is at once harmonious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must 
sweep the 

" Winding margin of a hundred miles." 

The perspective that follows, mountains blue — the imprisoned billows 
beating in vain — the wooded isles — the digression on the yew-tree — 
"Ben Lomond's lofty, cloud-enveloped head," &c., are beautiful. A thunder- 
storm is a subject which has been often tried, yet our poet in his grand 
picture has interjected a circumstance, so far as I know, entirely 
original -. - 

" The gloom 

Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving fire." 



TT- 





:tl 



430 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



In his preface to the storm, "the glens how dark between," is noble 
Highland landscape ! The " rain ploughing the red mould," too, is beau- 
tifull}' fancied. " Ben Lomond's lofty, pathless top," is a good expression ; 
and the surrounding view from it is truly great : the 

Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described ; and here he has contrived to enliven his poem with a 
little of that passion which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern Muses 
altogether. I know not how far this episode is a beauty upon the whole, 
but the swain's wish to carry " some faint idea of the vision bright," to 
entertain her "partial listening ear," is a pretty thought. But in my 
opinion the most beautiful passages in the whole poem are the fowls 
crowding, in wintry frosts, to Loch Lomond's "hospitable flood," their 
wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, diving, &c., and the glorious 
description of the sportsman. This last is equal to anything in the 
" Seasons." The idea of " the floating tribes distant seen, far glistering 
to the moon," provoking his eye as he is obliged to leave them, is a noble 
ray of poetic genius. " The howling winds," the " hideous roar " of " the 
white cascades," are all in the same style. 

I forget that while I am thus holding forth with the heedless warmth of 
an enthusiast, I am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, however, 
mention that the last verse of the sixteenth page is one of the most elegant 
compliments I have ever seen. I must likewise notice that beautiful 
paragraph beginning " The gleaming lake," &c. I dare not go into the 
particular beauties of the last two paragraphs, but they are admirably fine, 
and truly Ossianic. 

I must beg your pardon for this lengthened scrawl ; I had no idea of it 
when I began. I should like to know who the author is : but whoever he 
be, please present him with my grateful thanks for the entertainment he 
has afforded me. 

A friend of mine desired me to commission for him two books — " Letters 
on the Religion Essential to Man," a book you sent me before ; and "The 
World Unmasked, or the Philosopher the Greatest Cheat." Send me them 
by the first opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly elegant. I only 
wish it had been in two volumes. — R. B. 



No. CLX. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE "STAR." 

[The following protest was called forth as much by the " dour " Calvinism as 
by the violent Whiggism of a thanksgiving sermon preached by the Rev. Mr. 
Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, in accordance with an order of the General Assembly, 
in memory " of that glorious event, the Revolution."] 

Sir, November 8, 1788. 

Notwithstanding the opprobrious epithets with which some of 
our philosophers and gloomy sectarians have branded our nature — the 



T^- 




THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 4 3 1 

principle of universal selfishness, the proneness to all evil, they have given 
^s — still, the detestation in which inhumanity to the distressed or inso- 
lence to the fallen are held by all mankind shows that they are not natives of 
the human heart. Even the unhappy partner of our kind who is undone — 
the bitter consequence of his follies or his crimes — who but sympathises 
with the miseries of this ruined profligate brother? We forget the inju- 
ries, and feel for the man. 

I went, last Wednesday, to my parish church, most cordially to join in 
grateful acknowledgment to the Author of all good for the consequent 
blessings of the glorious Revolution. To that auspicious event we owe 
no less than our liberties, civil and religious ; to it we are likewise 
indebted for the present royal family, the mling features of whose 
administration have ever been mildness to the subject and tenderness 
of his rights. 

Bred and educated in Revolution principles, the principles of reason and 
common sense, it could not be any silly political prejudice which made my 
heart revolt at the harsh, abusive manner in which the reverend gentleman 
mentioned the House of Stuart, and which, I am afraid, was too much 
the language of the day. We may rejoice sufificiently in our deliverance 
from past evils without cruelly raking up the ashes of those whose 
misfortune it was, perhaps as much as their crime, to be the authors of 
those evils ; and we may bless God for all His goodness to us as a nation, 
without at the same time cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, who only 
harboured ideas and made attempts that most of us would have done had 
we been in their situation. 

"The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart" may be said with 
propriety and justice, when compared with the present royal family and 
the sentiments of our days ; but is there no allowance to be made for the 
manners of the times? Were the royal contemporaries of the Stuarts 
more attentive to their subjects' rights? Might not the epithets of 
"bloody and tyrannical" be, with at least equal justice, applied to the 
House of Tudor, of York, or any other of their predecessors. 

The simple state of the case. Sir, seems to be this : — At that period the 
science of government, the knowledge of the tme relation between king 
and subject, was, like other sciences and other knowledge, just in its 
infancy, emerging from dark ages of ignorance and barbarity. 

The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives which they knew their 
predecessors enjoyed, and which they saw their contemporaries enjoying; 
Dut these prerogatives were inimical to the happiness of a nation and th« 
rights of subjects. 

In this contest between prince and people — the consequence of thar. 
light of science which had lately dawned over Europe — the monarch of 
France, for example, was victorious over the struggling liberties of his 
people : with us, luckily, the monarch failed, and his unwarrantable 
pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and happiness. Whether it was 
owing to the wisdom of leading individuals, or to the justling of parties. 
I cannot pretend to determine ; but, likewise, happily for us, the kingly 
power was shifted into another branch of the family, who, as they owed 



^ 



432 THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 

the throne solely to the call of a free people, could claim nothing incon- 
sistent with the covenanted terms which placed them there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned and laughed at for the folly and 
impracticability of their attempts in 1715 and 1745. That they failed, I 
bless God, but cannot join in the ridicule against them. Who does not 
know that the abilities or defects of leaders and commanders are often 
hidden until put to the touchstone of exigency, and that there is a caprice 
of fortune, an omnipotence in particular accidents and conjunctures of 
circumstances, which exalt us as heroes or brand us as madmen, just as 
they are for or against us ? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, inconsistent being : who v^^ould 
believe. Sir, that in this our Augustan age of liberality and refinement, while 
we seem so justly sensible and jealous of our rights and liberties, and 
animated with such indignation against the very memory of those who 
Avould have subverted them, that a certain people under our national 
protection should complain, not against our monarch and a few favourite 
advisers, but against our whole legislative body, for similar oppression, 
and almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers did of the House of 
Stuart? I will not, I cannot, enter into the merits of the case ; but I dare 
say the American Congress in 1776 will be allowed to be as able and as 
enlightened as the E:-glish Convention was in 1688, and that their 
posterity will celebrate fhe centenary of their deliverance from us as duly 
and sincerely as we do ours from the oppressive measures of the wrong- 
headed House of Stuart. 

To conclude, Sir : let every man who has a tear for the many miseries 
incident to humanity feel for a family illustrious as any in Europe, and 
unfortunate beyond historic precedent; and let every Briton (and par- 
ticularly every Scotsman) who ever looked with reverential pity on the 
dotage of a parent cast a veil over the fatal mistakes of the kings of his 
forefathers. — R. B. 



No. CLXI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

AT MOREHAM MAINS. 
Madam Mauchline, -i^th November, 1788. 

1 had the very great pleasure of dining at Dunlop yesterday. Men 
are said to flatter women because thev are weak : if it be so, poets must 
be weaker still: for Misses R. and'K. and Miss G. M'K. with their 
flattering attentions and artful compliments absolutely turned my head. 
I own that they did not lard me over as many a poet does his patron ; 
but they so intoxicated me with their .sly insinuations and delicate 
inuendoes of compliment, that if it had not been for a lucky recollection 
how much additional weight and lustre your good opinion and friendship 
must give me in that circle, I had certainly looked upon myself as a 
person of no smal' consecjuence. I dare not say one word how much J 




THE LE'iTERS OF BURNS. 




was chariTied with the Major's friendly, welcome, elegant manner, and 
acute remark, lest I should be thought to balance my orientalisms of 
applause over against the finest quey i in Ayrshire, which he made me a 
present of to help and adorn my farm-stock. As it was on Hallow-day, 
I am determined annually, as that day returns, to decorate her horns with 
an ode of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. 

So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop, I will take the first 
conveniency to dedicate a day, or perhaps two, to you and friendship, 
under the guarantee of the Major's hospitality. There will soon be three- 
score and ten miles of permanent distance between us ; and now that 
your friendship and friendly correspondence is entwisted with the heart- 
strings of my enjoyment of life, I must indulge myself in a happy day of 
" the feast of reason and the fiow of soul." — R. B. 



No. CLXII. 
TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 



Reverend and dear Sir, Mauchline, iVw^w^c >- 15, 1788. 

As I hear nothing of your motions, but that you are or were out 
of town, I do not know where this may find you, or whether it will find 
you at all. I wrote you a long letter, dated from the land of matrimony, 
in June ; but either it had not found you, or, what I dread more, it found 
you or Mrs. Blacklock in too precarious a state of health and spirits to 
take notice of an idle packet. 

I have done many little things for Johnson since I had the pleasure of 
seeing you: and I have finished one piece in the way of Pope's "Moral 
Epistles : " but from your silence I have everything to fear ; so I have only 
sent you two melancholy things, which I tremble lest they should too well 
suit the tone of your present feelings. 

In a fortnight 1 move, bag and baggage, to Nithsdale : till then, my 
direction is at this place ; after that period it will be at Ellisland, near 
Dumfries. It would extremely oblige me were it but half a line, to let me 
know how you are, and where you are. Can I be indiiferent to the fate 
of a man to wliom I owe so much — a man whom 1 not only esteem, but 
venerate ? 

My warmest good wishes and most respectful compliments to Mrs. 
Blacklock and Miss Johnson, if she is with you. 

I cannot conclude without telling you that I am more and more pleased 
with the step I took respecting " my Jean." Two things, from my happy 
experience, I set down as apophthegms in life — A wife's head is immaterial 
compared with her heart; and, "Virtue's (for wisdom, what poet pretends 
to it?) ways are ways of pleasantness, and all her paths are peace." Adieu! 

R. B. 

^ A young heifer. 




434 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

No. CLXIII. 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 

ENGRAVER. 
MV DEAR Sir, Mauchline, November 15, 1788. 

I liave sent you two more songs. If you have got any tunes, or 
anything to correct, please send them by return of the carrier. 

1 can easily see, my dear friend, that you will very probably have four 
volumes. Perhaps you may not find your account lucratively in this 
business; but you are a patriot for the music of your country, and I am 
certain posterity will look on themselves as highly indebted to your public 
spirit. Be not in a hurry ; let us go on correctly, and your name shall be 
immortal. 

I am preparing a flaming preface for your third volume. I see every 
day new musical publications advertised; but what are they? Gaudv, 
painted butterflies of a day, and then vanish forever : but your work will 
outlive the momentary neglects of idle fashion, and defy the teeth of time. 

Have you never a fair goddess that leads you a wild-goose chase of 
amorous devotion? Let me know a few of her qualities, .such as whether 
she be rather black or fair, plump or thin, short or tall, &c.,and choose 
your air, and I shall task my muse to celebrate her. — R. B. 

No. CLXIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

My dear honoured Friend, Ellisland, ■L^ih December, 1788. 

Yours dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, makes me very 
unhappy. "Almost blind and wholly deaf" are melancholy news of human 
nature ; but when told of a much-loved and honoured friend, they carry 
misery in the sound. Goodness on your part and gratitude on mine 
began a tie which has gradually entwisted itself among the dearest chords 
of my bosom, and I tremble at the omens of your late and present ailing 
habit and shattered health. You miscalculate matters widely when you 
forbid my waiting on you, lest it should hurt my worldly concerns. My 
small scale of farming is exceedingly more simple and easy than what 
you have lately seen at Moreham Mains. But, be that as it may, the 
heart of the man and the fancy of the poet are the two grand considera- 
tions for which I live : if miry ridges and dirty dunghills are to engross 
the best part of the functions of my soul immortal, I iiad better been a 
rook or a magpie at once, and then I should not have been plagued with 
any idea superior to breaking of clods and picking up grubs ; not to 
mention barn-door cocks or mallards — creatures with which I could almost 
exchange lives at any time. If you continue so deaf, I am afraid a visit 
will be no great pleasure to either of us ; but if I hear you are got so well 



^ 



1 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



435 



again as to be able to relish conversation, look you to it, Madam, for I 
will make my threatening good. I am to be at the New Year Day fair 
of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the world, friend, I will come and 
see you. 

Your meeting, which \ou so well describe, with your old schoolfellow 
and friend was truly interesting Out upon the ways of the world ! they 
spoil these "'social offsprings of the heart." Two veterans of the " men of 
the world " would have met with little more heart-workings than two old 
hacks worn out on the road. Apropos, is not the Scotch phrase, " aula 
lang syne," exceedingly expressive? There is an old song and tune 
which has often thrilled through my soul. You know I am an enthusiast 
in old Scotch songs. I shall give you the verses on the other sheet, as \ 
suppose Mr. Ker will save you the postage. — R. B. 



No. CLXV. 
TO MISS DAVIES. 

Madam, December, 1788. 

I understand my very worthy neighbour, Mr. Riddel, has informed 
you that I have made you the suljject of some verses. There is something 
so provoking in the idea of being the burthen of a ballad, that 1 do not 
think Job or Moses, though such patterns of patience and meekness, could 
have resisted the curiosity to know what that ballad was : so my worthy 
friend has clone me a mischief, which I dare say he never intended, and 
reduced me to the unfortunate alternative of leaving your curiosity un- 
gratified, or else disgusting you with foolish verses, the unfinished produc- 
tion of a random moment, and never meant to have met your ear. I have 
heard or read somewhere of a gentleman who had some genius, much 
eccentricity, and very considerable dexterity with his pencil. In the 
accidental group of life into which one is thrown, wherever this gentleman 
met with a character in more than ordinary degree congenial to "his heart, 
he used to steal a sketch of the face, merely, he said, as a nota bene, to 
point out the agreeable recollection to his memory. What this gentle- 
man's pencil was to him, my muse is to me ; and the verses I do myself 
the honour to send you are a memento exactly of the same kind that he 
indulged in. 

It ma\- be more owing to the fastidiousness of my caprice than the 
delicacy of my taste, but I am so often tired, disgusted,' ancl hurt with the 
insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, that when I meet with a 
person " after my own heart," I positively feel what an orthodox Protestant 
would call a species of idolatry, which acts on my fancy like inspiration ; 
and I can no more desist rhyming on the impulse, than an /Eolian harp 
can refuse its tones to the streaming air. A distich or two would be '"° 
consequence, though the object which hit my fancy were grey-bearded age ; 
but where my theme is youth and beauty, a young iady whose personal 
charms, wit, and sennment are equally striking and unaffected — by 




jn: 



lir 436 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




heavens ! though I had lived threescore years a married man. and three- 
score years before I was a married man, my imagination would hallow the 
very idea ; and 1 am truly sorry that the enclosed stanzas have done such 
poor justice to such a subject. — R. B. 



No. CLXVI. 
TO MR. JOHN TENNANT. 

December 22, 1788. 

I YESTERDAY tried my cask of whisky for the first time, and I assure 
you it does you great credit. It will bear five waters, strong, or six, 
ordinary, toddy. The whisky of this country is a most rascally liquor; 
and, by consequence, only drunk by the most rascally part of the 
inhabitants. I am persuaded, if you once get a footing here, you might 
do a great deal of business in the way of consumpt ; and should you 
commence distiller again, this is the native barley country. I am ignorant 
if, in your present way of dealing, you would think it worth your while to 
extend your business so far as this country side. I write you this on the 
account of an accident, which I must take the merit of having partly 
designed to. A neighbour of mine, a John Currie, miller in Carse-mill — a 
man who is, in a word, a "very" good man, even for a £ 500 bargain — he 
and his wife were in my house the time I broke open the cask. They 
keep a country public-house, and sell a great deal of foreign spirits, but 
all along thought that whisky would have degraded tlieir house. They 
were perfectly astonished at my whisky, both for its taste and strength ; 
and, by their desire, I write you to know if you could supply them with 
liquor of an equal quality, and v/hat price. Please write me by first post, 
and direct to me at Elli'sland, near Dumfries. If you could take a jaunt 
this way yourself, I have a spare spoon, knife, and fork, very much at your 
service. My complimenrs to Mrs. Tennant and all tha good folks in 
Glenconner and Barquharry. — R. B. 



No. CLXVII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM CRUIKSHANK. 

Ellisland, \^December] 1788. 

I HAVE not room, my dear friend, to answer all the particulars of your 
last kind letter. I shall be in Edinburgh on some business very soon ; 
and as I shall be two days, or perhaps three, in town, we shall discuss 
matters viva voce. My knee, I believe, will never be entirely well ; and 
an unlucky fall this winter has made it still worse. I well remember the 
circumstance you allude to respecting Creech's opinion of Mr. Nicol ; but 
as the first gentleman owes me still about fifty pounds, 1 dare not meddle 
in the affair. 

It gave me a very heavy heart to read such accounts of the consequence 
of your quarrel with that puritanic, rotten-hearted, hell-commissioned 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 437 



scoundrel, A . If, notwithstanding your unprecedented industry in 

public and your irreproachable conduct in private life, he still has you so 
much in Lis power, what ruin may he not bring on some others 1 could 
name ? 

Man}- and happy returns of seasons to you, with your dearest and 
wortliiest friend, and tlie lovely little pledge of your happy union. May 
the great Author of life, and of every enjoyment that can render life 
delightful, make her that comfortable blessing to you both which you so 
ardently wish for, and which, allow me to say, you so well deserve ! Glance 
over the foregoing verses, and let me have your blots. Adieu ! — R. B. 



No- CLXVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Wcw-ycar-day Morning, 1789. 

This, dear Madam, is a morning of wishes, and would to God that I 
came under the Apostle James's description ! — " the prayer of a righteous 
man a\aileth much." In that case. Madam, you should welcome in a year 
full of blessings : ever\thing that obstructs or disturbs tranquillity and 
self-enjoyment should be removed, and every pleasure that frail humanity- 
can taste should be yours. I own myself so little a Presbyterian, that I 
approve set times and seasons of more than ordinary acts of devotion, 
for breaking in on that habituated routine of life and thought which is so 
apt to reduce our existence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, and 
with some minds, to a state very little superior to mere machinery. 

This day — the first Sunday of May — a breezy, blue-skied noon some 
time about the beginning, and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about 
the end, of autumn — these, time out of mind, have been with me a kind 
of holiday. 

I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in the Spectator, " The Vision 
of Mirza," a piece that struck my young fanc}- before I was capable of 
fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : " On the 5th da}- of the moon, 
which, according to the custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, 
after having waslied myself and offered up my morning devotions, I 
ascended the high hill of Bagdad, in order to pass the rest of the day in 
meditation and prayer."' 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the substance or structure of 
our souls, so cannot account for those seeming caprices in them that one 
should be particularly pleased with this thing, or struck with that, which 
on minds of a different cast makes no extraordinary impression. I have 
some favourite flowers in spring, among which are the mountain-daisy, 
the harebell, the foxglove, the wild-brier rose, the budding birch, and the 
hoary hawthorn, that I view and hang over with particular delight. I 
never hear the loud, solitary whistle of the curlew in a summer noon, or 
the wild mixing cadence of a troop of grey plovers in an autumnal 
morning, without feeling an elevation of soul like the enthusiasm of 
devotion or poetry. Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be owing? 





-t£. 



438 TI/E LE T TERS OF B URNS. 

Are we a piece of machinery, wliich, like the vf-'olian harp, passive ^akes 
the impression of the passing accident? Or do these workings argue 
something within us above the trodden clod ? I own myself partial to 
such proofs of those awful and important realities — a God that made all 
things — man's immaterial and immortal nature — and a world of weal or 
wo beyond death and the grave ! — R. B. 



No. CLXIX. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

gjjj Ellisland, i,th January, 1789. 

As often as I think of writing to you, which has been three or four 
times every week these six months, it gives me something so like the idea 
of an ordinary-sized statue oifering at a conversation with the Rhodian 
Colossus, that my mind misgives me, and the affair always miscarries 
somewhere between purpose and resolve. 1 have at last got some business 
with you, and business letters are written by the style-book. I say my 
business is with you. Sir ; for you never had any with me, except the 
business that benevolence has in the mansion of poverty. 

The character and employment of a poet were formerly my pleasure, 
but are now my pride. I know that a very great deal of my late eclat 
was owing to the singularity of my situation and the honest prejudice of 
Scotsmen; but still, as I said in the preface to my first edition, 1 do look 
upon myself as having some pretensions from Nature to the poetic 
character. I have not a doubt but the knack, the aptitude to learn the 
Muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by Him "who forms the secret bias of the 
soul ; " but I as firmly believe that excellence in the profession is the fruit 
of industry, labour, attention, and pains — at least I am resolved to try my 
doctrine by the test of experience. Another appearance from the press 
I put off to a very distant day — a day that may never arrive ; but poesy 
I am determined to prosecute with all my vigour. Nature has given very 
few, if any, of the profession the talents of shining in every species of 
composition. 1 shall try (for until trial it is impossible to know) whether 
she has qualified me to shine in any one. The worst of it is, by the time 
one has finished a piece, it has been so often viewed and reviewed before 
the mental eye, that one loses in a good measure the powers of critical 
discrimination. Here the best criterion I know is a friend, not only of 
abilities to judge, but with good-nature enough, like a prudent teacher 
with a young learner, to praise perhaps a little more than is exactly just, 
lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most deplorable of all poetic 
diseases — heart-breaking despondency of himself. Dare I, Sir, already 
immensely indebted to your goodness, ask the additional obligation of 
your being that friend to me? I enclose you an essay of mine, in a walk 
of poesy to me entirely new; I mean the Epistle addressed to R. G., Esq., 
or Robert Graham of Fintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon worth, to 
whom I lie under very great obligations. The story of the poem, like 
most of m\- poems, is connected with my own story ; and to give you the 



# 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



439 



one I must give you something of the other. I cannot boast of Mi. 
Creech's ingenuous fair-dealing to me. He tcept me hanging about Edin- 
burgh from the 7th August, 1787, until the 13th April, 1788, before he would 
condescend to give me a statement of affairs ; nor had I got it even then, 
but for an angry letter I wrote him, which irritated his pride. " I could" 
not ""atale," but a detail, "unfold;" but what am I that should speak 
against the Lord's anointed Bailie of Edinburgh. 

I believe I shall in whole, ^100 copyright included, clear about ^'400 
some little odds ; and even part of this depends upon what the gentleman 
has yet to settle with me. I give you this information, because you did 
me the honour to interest yourself much in my welfare. 1 give you this 
information, but 1 give it to yourself only ; for I am still much in the 
gentleman's mercy. Perhaps I injure the man in the idea I am sometimes 
tempted to have of him : God forbid 1 should ! A little time will try, for 
in a month 1 shall go to town to wind up the business, if possible. 

To give the rest of my story in brief: I have married "my Jean," and 
taken a farm. With the first step I have every day more and more reason 
to be satisfied; with the last it is rather the reverse. I have a younger 
brother, who supports my aged mother; another still younger brother, 
and three sisters, in a farm. On my last return from Edinburgh it cost 
me about £180 to save them from ruin. Not that I have lost so much : 1 
only interposed between my brother and his impending fate by the loan of 
so much. I give myself no airs on this, for it was mere selfishness on my 
part : I was conscious that the wrong scale of the balance was pretty 
heavily charged, and I thought that throwing a little filial piety and 
fraternal affection into the scale in my favour might help to smooth 
matters at the grand reckoning. There is still one thing would make my 
circumstances quite easy ; I have an Excise-officer's commission, and I 
live in the midst of a country division. My request to Mr. Graham, who 
is one of the commissioners of Excise, was, if in his power, to procure 
me that division. If I were very sanguine, I might hope that some of 
my great patrons might procure me a treasury-warrant for supervisor, 
surveyor-general, &c. 

Thus, secure of a livelihood, " to thee, sweet Poetry, delightful maid," I 
would consecrate my future days. — R. B. 




No. CLXX. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

Ellisland, January b, 1789. 

Many happy returns of the season to you, ni}- dear Sir. May you be 
comparativel}- happy, up to your comparative worth, among the sons of 
men ; which wish would, I am sure, make you one of the most blest of 
the human race. 

I do not know if passing a " writer to the Signet" be a trial of scientific 
merit or a mere business of friends and interest. However it be, let me 
quote you my two favourite passages, which, though I have repeated them 



T=T- 





-^ 



440 7V/E LETTERS OE BURNS. 






ten thousand times, still they rouse my manhood and steel my resolution 
like inspiration. 

On Reason build resolve, 

That column of true majesty in man. — Youtig. 

Hear, Alfred, hero of the state. 

Thy Genius Heaven's high will declare: 

The triumph of the truly great, 

Is never, never to despair! 

Is never to despair! — Masque of Alfred. 

I grant you enter the lists of life to struggle for bread, business, notice, 
and distinction, in common with hundreds. But who are they? Men 
like yourself, and of that aggregate body your compeers, seven-tenths of 
them come short of your advantages, natural and accidental ; while two of 
those that remain, either neglect their parts, as flowers blooming in a 
desert, or misspend their strength, like a bull goring a bramble bush. 

But to change the theme : I am still catering for Johnson's publication ; 
and among others I have brushed up the following old favourite song a 
little, with a view to your worship. I have only altered a word here and 
there ; but if you like the humour of it, we shall think of a stanza or two 
to add to it. — R. B. 

No. CLXXI. 
TO PROFESSOR DUGALD STEWART. 

[Of the " Poet's Progress " Burns composed several detached pieces, but none 
have been preserved except a dozen satirical lines, supposed to refer to Creech. 
Dr. Gregory's "iron criticism" related to the "Wounded Hare."] 

gjj^ Ellisland, loth fati., 1787. 

The enclosed sealed packet I sent to Edinburgh a few days after I 
had the happiness of meeting you in Ayrshire, but you were gone for the 
Continent. I have now added a few more of my productions, those for 
which I am indebted to the Nithsdale Muses. The piece inscribed to 
R. G., Esq., is a copy of verses I sent Mr. Graham of Fintry, accompanying 
a request for his assistance in a matter, to me, of very great moment. To 
that gentleman I am already doubly indebted for deeds of kindness of 
serious import to my dearest interests, done in a manner grateful to the 
delicate feelings of sensibility. This poern is a species of composition 
new to me, but I do not intend it shall be my last essay of the kind, as 
you will see by the "Poet's Progress." These fragments, if my design 
succeed, are but a small part of "the intended whole. I propose it shall 
be the work of my utmost exertions, ripened by years : of course I do not 
wish it much known. The fragment beginning "A little upright, pert, 
tart, &c.," I have not shown to man living, till I now send it you. It 
forms the postulata, the axioms, the definition of a character, which, if it 
appear at all, shall be placed in a variety of lights. This particular part 
I send you merely as a sample of my hand at portrait-sketching ; but, lest 
idle conjecture should pretend to point out the original, please to let it be 
for your single, sole inspection. 

Need I make any apology for this trouble, to a gentleman who has 





m 



■J 'HE LET VERS OF B URNS. 44 ^ 



treated me with such marked benevolence and peculiar kindness — who 
has entered into my interests with so much zeal, and on whose critical 
decisions I can so fully depend? A poet as I am by trade, these decisions 
are to me of the last consequence. My late transient acquaintance 
among some of the mere rank and file of greatness, 1 resign with ease ; 
l)ut to the distinguished champions of genius and learning, I shall be ever 
ambitious of being known. The native genius and accurate discernment 
in Mr. Stewart's critical strictures, the justness (iron justice, for he has no 
l)Owels of compassion for a poor poetic sinner) of Dr. Gregory's remarks, 
and the delicacy of Professor Dalzel's taste, I shall ever revere. 
I shall be in Edinburgh some time next month. 
1 have the honour to be. Sir, 

Your highly obliged and very humble Servant, 

R. B. 

No. CLXXII. 

TO BISHOP GEDDES. 

[Bishop John Geddes was born at Enzie, Banffshire, in 1735. He was educated 
at the Scotch Roman Catholic College at Rome, ordained priest in 1759, had 
charge of a college in Madrid for several years, and was consecrated bishop in 
1780. In 1 781 he returned to Scotland, and resided chiefly at Edinburgh, but 
died in Aberdeen in 1799. He had met the poet at Lord Monboddo's. Bishop 
Cieddes is often confounded with another Roman Catholic ecclesiastic and native 
of Enzie, Dr. Alexander Geddes, an eccentric but learned man, who published a 
translation of the Scriptures and various miscellaneous works, and who was 
author of the humorous Scotch song 

" There was a wee bit wifiekie." 
It does not appear that Burns ever met Dr. A. Geddes. The book to which he 
refers was a copy of the Edinburgh edition of his own poems, to which he had 
made manuscript additions. The volume is now in the possession of Mr. James 
Black, Detroit, America.] 

Venerable Father, Ellisland, February 3^, 1789. 

As I am conscious that, wherever 1 am, you do me the honour to 
interest yourself in my welfare, it gives me pleasure to inform you, that I 
am here at last, stationary in the serious business of life, and have now 
not only the retired leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to those 
great and important questions — what I am ? where I am ? and for what 1 
am destined. 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, there was ever but one 
side on which 1 was habitually blameable, and there I have secured myself 
in the way pointed out by Nature and Nature's God. I was sensible that 
to so helpless a creature as a poor poet a wife and family were incum- 
brances, which a species of prudence would bid him shun ; but when the 
alternative was, being at eternal warfare with myself, on account of 
habitual follies, to give them no worse name, which no general example, 
no licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity, would, to me, ever justify, 1 
must have been a fool to have hesitated, and a madman to have made 
another choice. Besides, 1 had in "my Jean" a long and much-loved 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 





fellow-creature's happiness or misery among my hands, and who could 
trifle with such a deposit ? 

In the affair of a livelihood, I think myself tolerably secure : I ha\e 
good hopes of my farm ; but should they fail, I have an excise commission, 
which, on my simple petition, will at any time procure me bread. There 
is a certain stigma affixed to the character of an excise officer, but I do 
not pretend to borrow honour from my profession : and though the salary 
be comparatively small, it is luxury to anything that the first twenty-five 
years of my life taught me to expect. 

Thus, with a ra'tional aim and method in life, you may easily guess, my 
reverend and much-honoured friend, that my characteristical trade is not 
forgotten. I am, if possible, more than ever an enthusiast to the Muses. 
I am determined to study man and nature, and in that view incessantly ; 
and to try if the ripening and corrections of years can enable me to pro' 
duce something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your pardon for detaining so long, 
that I have been tuning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some large poetic 
plans that are floating in my imagination, or partly put in execution, I shall 
impart to you when I have the pleasure of meeting with you ; which, if you 
are then in Edinburgh, I shall have about the beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy Sir, with which you were pleased to honour 
me, you must still allow me to challenge ; for with whatever unconcern 
I give up my transient connexion with the merely great, I cannot lose the 
patronizing notice of the learned and good without the bitterest regret. 

R. B. 
No. CLXXIII. 
TO MR. JAMES BURNES. 

My dear Sir Ellisland, g^/;/>/)r/c(jr>', 1789. 

Why I did not write to you long ago is what, even on the rack, I 
could not answer. If you can in your mind form an idea of indolence, 
dissipation, hurry, cares, change of country, entering on untried scenes of 
life, all combined, you will save me the trouble of a blushing apology. It 
could not be want of regard for a man for whom I had a high esteem 
before I knew him — an esteem which has much increased since I did 
know him ; and this caveat entered, I shall plead guilty to any other 
indictment with which you shall please to charge me. 

After I parted from you, for many months my life was one continued 
scene of dissipation. Here at last I am become stationary, and have 
taken a farm and — a wife. 

The farm is beautifully situated on the Nith, a large river that runs by 
Dumfries, and falls into the Solway Frith. I have gotten a lease of my 
farm as long as I pleased ; but how it may turn out is just a guess, and it 
is yet to improve and enclose, &c. ; however, I have good hopes of my 
bargain on the whole. 

My wife is my Jean, with whose story you are partly acquainted. I 
found I had a much-loved fellow-creature's happiness or misery among 
mv hands, and I durst not trifle with so sacred a deposit. Indeed I have 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 443 

not any reason to repent the step I have taken, as I have attached myself 
to a very good wife, and have shaken myself loose of every bad failing. 

I have found my book a very profitable business, and with the profits of 
it 1 have begun life pretty decently. Should Fortune not favour me in 
farming, as I have no great faith in her fickle ladyship, I have provided 
n.vsQlf in another resource, which, however some folks may affect to 
dei;pise it, is still a comfortable shift in the day of misfortune. In the 
heyday of my fame, a gentleman, whose name at least I daresay you 
know, as his estate lies somewhere near Dundee, Mr. Graham of Fintry, 
one of the Commissioners of Excise, offered me the commission of an 
excise oflScer. I thought it prudent to accept the offer ; and accordingly 
1 took my instructions, and have my commission by me. Whether I may 
ever do duty, or be a penny the better for it, is what 1 do not know ; but I 
have the comfortable assurance that, come whatever ill fate will, I can, on 
my simple petition to the excise-board, get into employ. 

We have lost poor uncle Robert this winter. He has long been very 
weak, and with a very little alteration on him, he expired 3d Jan. 

His son William has been with me this winter, and goes in May to be 
an apprentice to a mason. His other son, the eldest, John, comes to me, 
1 expect, in summer. They are both remarkably stout young fellows, and 
promise to do well. His only daughter, Fanny, has been with me ever 
since her father's death, and 1 propose keeping her in my family till she 
be quite woman grown, and fit her for better service. She is one of the 
cleverest girls, and has' one of the most amiable dispositions, I have ever 
seen. 

All friends in this country and Ayrshire are well. Remember me to 
all friends in the north. My wife joins me in compliments to Mrs. B. 
and family. 

I am ever, my dear Cousin, 

Yours sincerely, 
R. B. 

No. CLXXIV. 

TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

[The two following letters relate to some poems by Mr. Mylne, who had 
recently died, which had been sent to Burns for his judgment by the Rev. Mr. 
Carfrae, at the suggestion of Mrs. Dunlop.] 

Ellisland, 4M March, 1789. 

Here am I, my honoured friend, returned safe from the capital. To 
a man who has a home, however humble or remote — if that home is like 
mine, the scene of domestic comfort — the bustle of Edinburgh will soon 
be a business of sickening disgust. 

" Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate you! " 

When I must skulk into a corner, lest tlie rattling equipage of some 
gaping blockhead should mangle me in the mire, 1 am tempted to 
exclaim, "What merits has he had, or what demerit have I had. in 
some state of ore-existence, that he is ushered into this state of being 



^ 



7=1- 




-- 444 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

with the sceptre of rule and the key of riches in his puny fist, and I am 
kicked into the world the sport of folly, or the victim of pride?" I have 
read somewhere of a monarch (in Spain I think it was), who was so out 
of humour with the Ptolemean system of astronomy, that he said, had he 
been of the Creator's council, he could have saved Him a great deal of 
labour and absurdity. I will not defend this blasphemous speech ; but 
often, as I have glided with humble stealth through the pomp of Princes 
Street, it has suggested itself to me, as an improvement on the present 
human figure, that a man, in proportion to his own conceit of his 
consequence in the world, could have pushed out the longitude of his 
common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, or as we draw out a 
perspective. This trifling alteration, not to mention the prodigious 
saving it would be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb sinews 
of many of his Majesty's liege subjects, in the way of tossing the head 
and tiptoe strutting, would evidently turn out a vast advantage, in 
enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in making a bow, or 
making way to a great man, and that too within a second of the 
precise spherical angle of reverence, or an inch of the particular point 
of respectful distance, which the important creature itself rec|uires ; as a 
measuring-glance at its towering altitude would determine the alTair like 
instinct. 

You are right. Madam, in \our idea of poor Mylne's poem, which he 
has addressed to me. The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has 
one great fault — it is, by far, too long. Besides, my success has en- 
couraged such a shoal of ill-spawned monsters to crawl into public 
notice, under the title of Scottish poets, that the very term Scottish 
poetry borders on the burlesque. When I write to Mr. Carfrae, I shall 
advise him rather to try one of his deceased friend's English pieces. 
I am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, else I would have 
requested a perusal of all Mylne's poetic performances, and would 
have offered his friends my assistance in either selecting or correcting 
what would be proper for 'the press. What it is that occupies me so 
much, and perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, shall fill up 
a paragraph in some future letter. In the mean time allow me to close 
this epistle with a few lines done by a friend of mine ... I give 
you them, that, as you have seen the original, you may guess whether one or 
two alterations I have ventured to make in them be any real improvement. 

" Like the fair plant that from our touch withdraws, 
Shrink, mildly fearful, even from applause; 
Be all a mother's fondest hope can dream, 
And all you are, my charming . . . seem. 
Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose. 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blows. 
Fair as the fairest of each lovely kind, 
Your form shall be the image of your mind; 
Your manners shall so true your soul express, 
That all shall long to know the worth they guess; 
Congenial hearts shall greet with kindred love. 
And even sick'ning envy must approve." ' 




R. B. 



These lines are supposed to have been written by Mrs. Dunlo]) herself. 



^- 







THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 445 



No. CLXXV. 

TO THE REV. P. CARFRAE. 

Rev. Sir, 1789- 

I do not recollect that I have ever felt a .severer pang of shame, 
than on looking at the date of your obliging letter which accompanied 
Mr. Mylne\s poem. 

I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne has done me, greatly 
enhanced in its value by the endearing, though melancholy, circumstance 
of its being the last production of his muse, deserved a better return. 

1 have, as you hint, thought of sending a copy of the poem to some 
periodical publication ; but, on second tlioughts, I am afraid that in the 
present case it would be an improper step. My success, perhaps as 
much accidental as merited, has brought an inundation of nonsense 
under the name of Scottish poetry. Subscription-bills for Scottish 
poems have so dunned, and daily do dun, the public, that the very 
name is in danger of contempt. For these reasons, if publishing any of 
Mr. Mylne's poems in a magazine, &c., be at all prudent, in my opinion it 
certainly should not be a Scottish poem. The profits of the labours of a 
man of genius are, I hope, as honourable as any profits whatever ; and 
Mr. Mylne's relations are most justly entitled to that honest harvest, which 
fate has denied himself to reap. But let the friends of Mr. Mylne's fame 
(among whom I crave the honour of ranking myself) always keep in eye 
his respectability as ■x man and as a poet, and take no measure that, 
before the world knows anything about him, would risk his name and 
character being classed with the fools of the times. 

I have. Sir, some experience of publishing; and the wa\- in which I 
would proceed with Mr. Mylne's poems is this : — I will publish in two or 
three English and Scottish public papers any one of his English poems 
which should, by private judges, be thought the most excellent, and 
mention it, at the same time, as one of the productions of a Lothian 
farmer, of respectable character, lately deceased, whose poems his friends 
had it in idea to publish, soon, by subscription, for the sake of his 
numerous family ; — not in pity to that family, but in justice to what his 
friends think the poetic merits of the deceased ; and to secure, in the 
most effectual manner, to those tender connexions, whose right it is, the 
pecuniary reward of those merits. — R. B. 



No. CLXXVI. 

TO CLARINDA. 
Madam, gth March, ijZg. 

The '.atter you wrote me to Heron's carried its own answer ni Us 
bosom ; }ou forbade me to write \ou, unless I was willing to plead guiltv 
to a certain indictment that vou were plea.sed to bring against me. As I 
am convinced of my own innocence, and though conscious of high im- 
prudence and egregious folly, can lay my hand on my breast and" attest 



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■7=1= 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



the rectitude of my heart, you will pardon me, Madam, if I do not carry 
my complaisance so far as humbly to acquiesce in the name of villain, 
merely out of compliment to your opinion, much as I esteem your 
judgment, and warmly as I regard your worth. 

Thave already told you, and 1 again aver it, that at the period of time 
alluded to 1 was not under the smallest moral tie to Mrs. Burns; nor did 
I. nor could I, then know all the powerful circumstances that omnipotent 
necessity was busy laying in wait for me. When you call over the scenes 
that have passed between us, you will survey the conduct of an honest 
man, struggling successfully with ten-.ptations the most powerful that 
ever beset humanity, and preserving untainted honour in situations where 
the austerest virtue would have forgiven a fall ; situations that, I will dare 
to say, not a single individual of all his kind, even with half his sensibility 
and passion, could have encountered without ruin ; and I leave you to 
guess. Madam, how such a man is likely to digest au accusation of 
perfidious treachery. 

Was I to blame. Madam, in being the distracted victim of charms which, 
I affirm it, no man ever approached with impunity? Had I seen the least 
glimmering of hope that these charms could ever have been mine, or 
even had not iron necessity — but these are unavailing words. 

1 would have called on you when I was in town — indeed, I could not 
have resisted it — but that Mr. Ainslie told me that you were determined to 
avoid your windows while I was in town, lest even a glance of me should 
occur in the street. 

When 1 have regained your good opinion, perhaps I may venture to 
solicit your friendship ; but, be that as it may, the first of her sex I ever 
knew shall always be the object of my warmest good wishes. — R. B. 



No. CLXXVII. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

5iR Ellisland, 23a' /l/rt>-c/r, 1789. 

The gentleman who will deliver you this is a Mr. Nielson, a worthy 
clergyman in my neighbourhood, and a very particular acquaintance of 
mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, I must turn him over to 
your goodness, to reconipense him for it in a way in which he much needs 
your assistance, and where you can effectually serve him. Mr. Nielson is 
on his way for France, to wait on his Grace of Oueensberry, on some little 
business of a good deal of importance to him, and he wishes for your 
instructions respecting the most eligible mode of travelling. &c., for him, 
when he has crossed the Channel. I should not have dared to take this 
liberty with you, but that I am told, by those who have the honour of 
your personal acquaintance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is a 
letter of recommendation to you, and that to have it in your power to 
serve such a character gives you much pleasure. 

The enclosed ode ^s a compliment to the memory of the late Mrs. 
Oswald, of Auchencruive. You, probably, knew her personally, an honour 



^ 



7^^- 





THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 44 7 

of which I cannot boast : but I spent my early years in her neighbour- 
hood, and among her servants and tenants. I Icnovv that she was 
detested with the most heartfelt cordialit)-. However, in the particular 
part of her conduct which roused my poetic wrath, she was much less 
blameable. In January last, on my road to Ayrshire, I had put up at 
Bailie Whigham's, in Sanquhar, the only tolerable inn in the place. 
The frost was keen, and the grim evening and howling wind were 
ushering in a night of snow and drift. My horse and I were both much 
fatiguecf with the labours of the day ; and just as my friend the Bailie 
and I were bidding defiance to the storm over a smoking bowl, in wheels 
the funeral pageantry of the late great Mrs. Oswald, and poor I am forced 
to brave all the horrors of the tempestuous night, and jade my horse, my 
young favourite horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, twelve miles 
farther on, through the wildest moors and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cum- 
nock, the next inn. The powers of poesy and prose sink under me, when 
I would describe what I felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire at 
New Cumnock had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat down and 
wrote the enclosed ode. 

I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally with Mr. Creech ; and I 
must own that at last he has been amicable and fair with me. — R. B. 



No. CLXXVIII. 

TO MR. HILL. 

[The " library scheme " here referred to is now-a-days a common institution in 
almost every village : but it is worth note that Burns appreciated the movement, 
and interested himself actively in it, at its first beginnings.] 

Ellisland, i7id April, 1789. 

I WILL make no excuse, my dear Bibliopolus, (God forgive me for 
murdering language !) that I have sat down to write you on this vile 
paper. 

It is economy. Sir ; it is that cardinal virtue, pnidence ; so I beg you 
will sit down, and either compose or borrow a panegyric. If you are going 
to borrow, apply to ... to compose, or rather to compound, something 
ver\- clever on my remarkable frugality ; that I write to one of my most 
esteemed friends on this wretched paper, which was originally intended 
for the venal fist of some drunken exciseman, to take dirty notes in a 
miserable vault of an ale-cellar. 

O Frugality ! thou mother of ten thousand blessings ! — thou cook of fat 
beef and dainty greens! — thou manufacturer of warm Shetland hose and 
comfortable surtouts ! — thou old housewife, darning thy decayed stockings 
with thy ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ! — lead me, hand me in thy 
clutching palsied fist, up those heights, and through those thickets, hitherto 
inaccessible and impervious to my anxious, weary feet : not those Par- 
nassian crags, bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers of fame 
are, breathless, clambering, hanging between heaven and hell, but those 



^^r^ 




^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



glittering cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all-powerful deity, Wealth, 
holds his immediate court of joys and pleasures ; where the sunny expo- 
sure of plenty and the hot walls of profusion produce those blissful fruits 
of luxury, exotics in this world and natives of paradise ! Thou withered 
sybil, my sage conductress, usher me into thy refulgent, adored presence ! 
The power, splendid and potent as he now is, was once the puling 
nursling of thy faithful care and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy 
cousin, thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god by the scenes of his 
infant years no longer to repulse me as a stranger or an alien, but to 
favour me with his peculiar countenance and protection ! He daily 
bestows his greatest kindness on the undeserving and the worthless : 
assure him, that I bring ample documents of meritorious demerits ! 
Pledge yourself for me, that for the glorious cause of Lucre I will do 
anything, be anything — but the horse-leech of private oppression, or the 
vulture of public robbery ! 

But to descend from heroics. 

I want a Shakespeare; I want likewise an English dictionary — John- 
son's, I suppose, is best. In these and all my prose commissions the 
cheapest is always the best for me. There is a small debt of honour that 
I owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in Saughton Mills, my worthy friend, and 
your well-wisher. Please give him, and urge him to take it, the first time 
you see him, ten shillings' worth of anything you have to sell, and place 
it to my account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you is alread}' begun, under 
the direction ot Captain Riddel. There is another in emulation of it 
going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of Mr. Monteith, of Closeburn, 
which will be on a greater scale than ours. Capt. Riddel gave his infant 
society a great many of his old books, else I had written you on that 
subject ; but one of these days I shall trouble you with a commission for 
" The Monkland Friendly Society : " a copy of '• The Spectator," " Mirror," 
and "Lounger," " Man^ of Feeling," "Man of the World," "Guthrie's 
Geographical Grammar," with some religious pieces, will likely be our 
first order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on gilt post, to make amends 
for this sheet. At present every guinea has a five guinea errand with. 

My dear Sir, 
Your faithful, poor, but honest Friend, 

R. B. 



No. CLXXIX. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP. 

Ellisland, a,th April, 1789. 

I NO sooner hit on any poetic plan or fancy, but I wish to send it to 
you : and if knowing and reading these give half the pleasure to you that 
communicating them to you gives to me, I am satisfied. 

I have a poetic whim in my head, which I at present dedicate, or rather 
inscribe, to the Right Hon. Charles James Fox; but how long that fancy 



S 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 449 

may liold, I cannot say. A few of the first lines I have just rough- 
sketched as follows : — 

SKETCH. 

How wisdom and folly meet, mix, and unite; 
How virtue and vice blend their black and their white; 
How genius, the illustrious father of fiction. 
Confounds rule and law, reconciles contradiction — 
I sing : if these mortals, the critics, should bustJe, 
I care not, not I; let the critics go whistle. 

But now for a patron, whose name and whose glory 
At once may illustrate and honour my story. 

Thou first of our orators, first of our wits. 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem mere lucky hits; 
With knowledge so vast, and with judgment so strong, 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went far wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 
No man with the half of 'em e'er went quite right; 
A sorry, poor misbegot son of the Muses 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses, &c. 

(For the rest see page 107.) 

On the 20th current I hope to have the honour of assuring you, in per- 
son, how sincerely I am. — R. B 



No. CLXXX. 
TO MRS. McMURDO. 

DRUMLANRIG. 
M A.DAM Ellisland, 2(/ i7/rt_j', 1789. 

I have finished the piece 1 which had the happy fortune to be 
honoured with your approbation ; and never did little miss with more 
sparkling pleasure show her applauded sampler to partial mamma, than 
I now send my poem to you and Mr. McMurdo, if he is returned to 
Drumlanrig. You cannot easily imagine what thin-skinned animals, 
what sensitive plants, poor poets are. How do we shrink into the 
embittered corner of self-abasement, when neglected or condemned by 
those to whom we look up ! and how do we, in erect importance, add 
another cubit to our stature on being noticed and applauded by those 
whom we honour and respect ! My late visit to Drumlanrig has, I can 
tell you. Madam, given me a balloon waft up Parnassus, where on my 
fancied elevation I regard my poetic self with no small degree of com- 
placency. Surely, with all their sins, the rhyming tribe are not ungrateful 
creatures. I recollect your goodness to your humble guest, I see Mr. 
McMurdo adding to the politeness of the gentleman the kindness of a 
friend, and my heart swells as it would burst, with warm emotions and 
ardent wishes ! It may be it is not gratitude ; it may be a mixed sensa- 
tion. That strange, shifting, double animal man is so generally, at best, 

' " Bonnie Jean;" the heroine of which was the eldest daughter of Mrs. McMurdo, and sister 
to Phillis: their charms give lustre to some of the Poet's happiest lyrics. 



^ 




45 o 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



but a negative, often a worthless, creature, that we cannot see real good- 
ness and native worth without feeling the bosom glow with sympathetic 
approbation. 

With every sentiment of grateful respect, 

1 have the honour to be. Madam, 
Your obliged and grateful humble Servant, 

R. B. 

No. CLXXXI. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

My dear Sir, Ellisland, 4M May, 1789. 

Your duty-free favour of the 26th April I received two days ago. 
I will not say I received it with pleasure ; that is the cold compliment of 
ceremony: 1 perused it. Sir, with delicious satisfaction; — in short, it 
is such a letter, that not you, nor your friend, but the legislature, by 
express proviso in their postage laws, should frank. A letter informed 
with the soul of friendship is such an honour to human nature, that they 
should order it free ingress and egress to and from their bags and mails, 
as an encouragement and mark of distinction to supereminent virtue. 

I have jusf put the last hand to a little poem, which I think will be 
something to your taste. One morning lately, as I was out pretty early 
in the fields, sowing some grass seeds, I heard the burst of a shot from 
a neighbouring plantation, and presently a poor little wounded hare came 
crippling by me. You will guess my indignation at the inhuman fellow 
who could shoot a hare at this season, when all of them have young 
ones. Indeed there is something in that business of destroying for our 
sport individuals in the animal creation that do not injure us materially 
which I could never reconcile to my ideas of virtue. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rous art, 

And blasted be thy murder-aiming eye ! 

May never pity soothe thee with a sigh, 
Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart! — &c. {Page 96.) 

Let me know how you like my poem. I am doubtful whether it would 
not be an improvement to keep out the last stanza but one altogether. 

Cruikshank is a glorious production of the Author of man. You, he, 
and the noble Colonel of the Crochallan Fencibles are to me 

" Dear as the ruddy drops which warm my heart." 

1 have a good mind to make verses on you all to the tune of " Three guid 
fellows ayont the glenn." — R. B. 



No. CLXXXII. 

TO RICHARD BROWN. 

My dear Friend, Mauchline, 21.?;' .]/«;)', 1789. 

I was in the country by accident, and hearing of your safe arrival. 

I could not resist the temptation of wishing you joy on your return. 



^" 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 45 I 

wishing you would write to me before you sail again, wishing you would 
always set me down as your bosom friend, wishing you long life and 
prosperity, and that every good thing may attend you, wishing Mrs. 
Brown and your little ones as free of the evils of this world as is 
consistent with humanity, wishing you and she were to make two at 
the ensuing lying-in with which Mrs. B. threatens very soon to favour 
me, wishing \ had longer time to write to you at present, and, finally, 
wishing that if there is to be another state of existence, Mr. B., Mrs. B., 
our little ones, and both families, and you and I, iu some snug retreat, 
may make a jovial partv to all eternity! 

My direction is at Ellisland, near Dumfries. 

Yours, R. B. 



No. CLXXXIII. 
TO MR. JAMES HAMILTON. 
Dear Sir, Ellisland, lUh May, 1789. 

I would fain offer, my dear Sir, a word of sympathy with your 
misfortunes ; but it is a tender string, and I know not how to touch it. 
It is easy to flourish a set of high-flown sentiments oa the subjects that 
would give great satisfaction to — a breast quite at ease; but as one 
observes who was very seldom mistaken in the theory of life, "The 
heart knoweth its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth not there- 
with." 

Among some distressful emergencies that I have experienced in life, I 
ever laid this down as my foundation of comfort — That he who has lived 
I he life of an honest man has by no means lived in vain 1 
With ever}- wish for your welfare and future success, 

I am, my dear Sir, 

Sincerely yours, 

R. B. 

No. CLXXXIV. 
TO WILLIAM CREFX:H, ESQ. 

Sir, ELLL'iLAND, 30M lilay, 1789. 

I had intended to have troubled you with a long letter, but at 
present the delightful sensations of an omnipotent toothache so engross 
all my inner man, as to put it out of my power even to write nonsense 
However, as in dut)' bound, I approach my bookseller with an offering in 
my hand — a few poetical clinches and a song : — to expect any other kind 
of off"ering from the rhyming tribe would be to know them much less 
than you do. I do not pretend that there is much merit in these tnor- 
ceanx; but I have two reasons for sending them : prinio, they are mostly 
ill-natured, so are in unison with my present feelings, while fifty troops of 
infernal spirits are driving post from ear to ear along my jaw-bones ; and 



-7=\- 






s 



452 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

secondly, they are so short, that you cannot leave off in the middle, and so 
hurt my pride in the idea that you found any work of mine too heavv to 
get through. 

I have a request to beg of you, and I not only beg of you, but conjure 
you, by all your wishes and by all your hopes that the Muse will spare 
the satiric wink in \\\t moment of your foibles ; that she will warble the 
song of rapture round your hymeneal couch ; and that she will shed on 
your turf the honest tear of elegiac gratitude ! Grant my request as 
speedily as possible : . send me by the very first fly or coach for this place 
three copies of the last edition of my poems, which place to my account. 

Now may the good things of prose, and the good things of verse, come 
among thy hands, until they be filled with the good things of tJiis life, 
prayeth R. B. 



No. CLXXXV. 
TO MR. JOHN McAULAY. 

TOWN CLERK OF DUMBARTON. 

Dear Sir, Ellisland, 4M 7««^, 1789. 

Though I am not without my fears respecting my fate at that 
grand, universal inquest of right and wrong commonly called The Last 
Day, yet I trust there is one sin which that arch-vagabond Satan, who I 
understand is to be king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth — I mean 
ingratitude. There is a certain pretty large quantum of kindness for 
which I remain, and from inability I fear must still remain, your-debtor ; 
but though unable to repay the debt, I assure you. Sir, I shall ever warmly 
remember the obligation. It gives me the sincerest pleasure to hear by 
my old acquaintance, Mr. Kennedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's lan- 
guage, " Hale, and weel, and living ; " and that your charming family are 
well, and promising to be an amiable and respectable addition to the 
company of performers whom the Great Manager of the Drama of Man 
is bringing into action for tiie succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in which you once warmly and 
effectively interested yourself, I am here in my old way, holding my plough, 
marking the growth of my corn, or the health of my dairy ; and at times 
.sauntering by the delightful windings of the Nith, on the margin of which 
I have built my humble domicile ; praying for seasonable weather, or 
holding an intrigue with the Muses — the only gypsies with whom I have 
now any intercourse. As I am entered into the holy state of matrimony, 
I trust mv face is turned completely Zionward : and as it is a rule with all 
honest fellows to repeat no grievances, I hope that the little poetic licences 
of former days will of course fall under the ol^livious influence of some 
good-natured st?.tute of celestial prescription. In my family devotion, 
which, like a good presbytcrian, I occasionally give to my household folks, 
I am extremely fond of the psalm, " Let not the errors of my youth," &c.. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



and that other, " Lo, children are God's heritage," &c., in which last Mrs 
Burns, who. by the by, has a glorious " wood-note wild " at either old song 
or psalmody, joins me with the pathos of HandePs " Messiah." — R. B. 

N(X CLXXXVI. 
TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

My dear FrIENE, Ellisland, Wi 7h,u-, 1789. 

1 am perfectly ashamed of myself when I look at the date of your 
last. It is not that 1 forget the friend of my heart and the companion ot 
my peregrinations ; but 1 have been condemned to dmdgery beyond 
sufferance, though not, thank God, beyond redemption. I have had a 
collection of poems by a lady put into my hands to prepare them for the 
press ; which horrid task, with sowing corn with my own hand, a parcel of 
masons, wrights, plasterers, &c., to attend to, roaming on business through 
Ayrshire — all this was against me, and the very first dreadful article was 
of itself too much for me. 

13th. — I have not had a moment to spare from incessant toil since the 
8th. Life, my dear Sir, is a serious matter. You know by experience 
that a man's individual self is a good deal, but, believe me, a wife and 
family of children, whenever you have the honour to be a husband and a 
father, will show you that your present and most anxious hours of solitude 
are spent on trifles. The welfare of those who are very dear to us, whose 
only support, hope, and stay we are — this, to a generous mind, is another 
sort of more important object of care than any concerns whatever which 
centre merely in the individual. On the other hand, let no young, un- 
married, rakehelly dog among you make a song of his pretended liberty 
and freedom from care. If the relations we stand in to king, country, 
kindred, and -friends, be anything but the visionary fancies of dreaming 
metaphysicians ; if religion, virtue, magnanimity, generosity, humanity, 
and justice, be aught out em]Dty sounds : then the man who may be said 
to live only for others, for the beloved, honourable female, whose tender, 
faithful embrace endears life, and for the helpless little innocents who are 
to be the men and women, the worshippers of his God, the subjects of 
his king, and the support, nay, the very vital existence, of his country, in 
the ensuing age : — compare such a man with any fellow whatever, who, 
\\hether he bustle and push in business among labourers, clerks, statesmen ; 
or whether he roar and rant, and drink and sing, in taverns — a fellow over 
whose grave no one will breathe a single heigh-ho, except from the cobweb- 
tie of what is called good fellowship — who has no view nor aim but what 
terminates in himself: if there be any grovelling earthborn wretch of our 
species, a renegado to common sense, who would fain believe that the 
noble creature man is no better than a sort of fungus, generated out ot 
nothing, nobody knows how, and soon dissipating in nothing, nobody 
knows where ; such a stupid beast, such a crawling reptile, might balance 
the foregoing unexaggerated comparison, but no one else would have the 
patience. 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




Forgive me, my clear Sir, for this long silence. To make you amends 
I shall send you soon, and, more encouraging still, without any postage 
one or two rhymes of my later manufacture. — R. B. 



No. CLXXXVII. 

TO MR. [PETER STUART]. 

[Mr. Robert Chambers has discovered that this letter was addressed to Mr. 
Peter Stuart, editor of the Star, and afterwards connected with ihe Morning Post 
md Chronicle.'] 

My DEAR Sir, '789. 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular season and the indolence 
of a poet at all times and seasons will, I hope, plead my excuse for neg- 
lecting so long to answer your obliging letter of the 5th of August. . . . 

When I received your letter I was transcribing for . . . my letter to 
the magistrates of the Canongate, Edinburgh, begging their permission 
to place a tombstone over poor Fergusson, and their edict in con- 
sequence of my petition ; but now I shall send them to ... . Poor 
Fergusson ! If there be a life beyond the grave, which I trust there 
is ; and if there be a good God presiding over all nature, which I am 
sure there is ; thou art now enjoying existence in a glorious world, 
where worth of the heart alone is distinction in the man ; where riches, 
deprived of all their pleasure-purchasing powers, return to their native 
sordid matter; where titles and honours are the disregarded reveries 
of an idle dream ; and where that heavy virtue, which is the negative 
consequence of steady dullness, and those thoughtless, though often de- 
structive, follies which are the unavoidable aberrations of frail human 
nature, will be thrown into equal oblivion, as if they had never been ! 

Adieu, my dear Sir ! So soon as your present views and schemes are 
concentred in an aim, I shall be glad to hear from you, as your welfare 
and happiness is by no means a subject indifferent to Yours, 

R B. 

No. CLXXXVIII. 
TO MISS WILLIAMS. 

[Miss Helen Maria Williams, author of " Some Verses on the Slave Trade, and 
other Poems," was introduced to Burns by Dr. Moore] 

Madam, Ellisland, 1789. 

Of the many problems in the nature of that wonderful creature 
man, this is one of the most extraordinary, that he shall go on from da) 
to day, from week to week, from month to month, or perhaps from year to 
year, suffering a hundred times more in an hour from the impotent 
consciousness of neglecting what he ought to do, than the very doing of it 
would cost him. I am deeply indebted to you, first for the most elegant 



^ 



zh± 



THE LET TEES OF BURNS. 



455 



poetic compliment, then for a polite, obliging letter, and lastly, for your 
excellent poem on the Slave Trade ; and yet, wretch that I am ! though 
the debts were debts of honour, and the creditor a lady, I have put off 
and put otf even the acknowledgment of the obligation, until you must 
indeed be the very angel I take you for, if you can forgive me. 

Your poem I have read with the highest pleasure. I have a way 
whenever I read a book — I mean a book in our own trade. Madam, a 
poetic one — and when it is my own property, that I take a pencil and 
mark at the ends of verses, or note on margins and odd paper, little 
criticisms of approbation or disapprobation as I peruse along. I will 
make no apology for presenting you with a few unconnected thoughts 
that occurred to me in my repeated perusals of your poem. I want to 
show you that I have honesty enough to tell you what I take to be 
truths, even when they are not quite on the side of approbation ; and 
I do it in the firm faith that you have equal greatness of mind to hear 
them with pleasure. 

I know very little of scientific criticism ; so all I can pretend to do 
in that intricate art is merely to note, as I read along, what passages 
strike me as being uncommonly beautiful, and where the expression 
seems to be perplexed or faulty. 

The poem opens finely. There are none of these idle prefatory lines 
which one may skip over before one comes to the subject. Verses 9th 
and loth in particular, 

" Where ocean's unseen bound 
Leaves a drear world of waters round," 

are truly beautiful. The simile of the hurricane is likewise fine; and 
indeed, beautiful as the poem is, almost all the similes rise decidedly 
above it. From verse 31st to verse 50th is a pretty eulogy on Britain. 
Verse 36th, " That foul drama deep with wrong," is nobly expressive. 
Verse 46th, I am afraid, is rather unworthy of the rest: " to dare to feel" 
is an idea that I do not altogether like. The contrast of valour and 
mercy, from the 46th verse to the 50th, is admirable. 

Either my apprehension is dull, or there is something a little confused 
in the apostrophe to Mr. Pitt. Verse 55th is the antecedent to verses 
57th and 58th. but in verse 58th the connexion seems ungrammatical : — 

" Powers 

With no gradations mark'd their flight, 
But rose at once to glory's height." 

" Ris'n " should be the word instead of "rose." Try it in prose. Powers, — 
their flight marked by no gradations, but [the .samie powers] risen at 
once to the height of glory. Likewise, verse 53d, " For this" is evidently 
meant to lead on the sense of the verses 59th, 60th, 6ist, and 626.; but 
let us try how the thread of connexion runs : — 

" For this 

The deeds of mercy, that embrace 
A distant sphere, an alien race, 
Shall virtue's lips record, and claim 
The fairest honours of thy name." 




—tzl 



THE LETTERS OE BUAW'S. 




I beg pardon if I misapprehend the matter, but this appears to me the 
only imperfect passage in the poem. The comparison of the sunbeam 
is fine. 

The compliment to the Duke of Richmond is, 1 hope, as just as it is 
certainly elegant. The thought 

'/ Virtue ..... 
Sends from her unsullied source 
The gems of thought their purest force," 

is exceedingly beautiful. The idea, from verse 8ist to the 85th, that the 
" blest decree" is like the beams of morning ushering in the glorious clay 
of liberty, ought not to pass unnoticed or unapplauded. From verse 85th 
to verse 108th is an animated contrast between the unfeeling selfishness 
of the oppressor, on the one hand, and the misery of the captive, on the 
other. Verse 88th might perhaps be amended thus: "Nor ever qnit 
her narrow maze." We are said to pass a bound, but we quit a maze. 
Verse looth is exquisitely beautiful : — 

" They, whom wasted blessings tire." 

Verse iioth is, I doubt, a clashing of metaphors; "to load a .span" is, 1 
am afraid, an unwarrantable expression. In verse 114th, "Cast the 
universe in shade" is a fine idea. From the 115th verse to the i42d 
is a striking description of the wrongs of the poor African. Verse 120th, 
" The load of unremitted pain," is a remarkable, strong expression. The 
address to the advocates for abolishing the slave-trade, from verse 143d 
to verse 208th, is animated with the true life of genius. The picture 
of Oppression, — 

" While she links her impious chain, 
And calculates the price of pain; 
Weighs agony in sordid scales, 
And marks if death or life prevails," — 

is nobly executed. 

What a tender idea is in verse i8oth! Indeed, that whole description 
of home may vie with Thomson's description of home, somewhere in the 
beginning of his " Autumn." I do not remember to have seen a stronger 
expression of misery than is contained in these verses : — 

" Condemned, severe extreme, to live 
When all is (led that life can give." 

The comparison of our distant joys to distant objects is equally original 
and striking. 

The character and manners of the dealer in the infernal traffic is a 
well done, though a horrid, picture. I am not sure how far introducing 
the sailor was right: for though the sailor's common characteristic is 
generosity, yet in this case he is certainly not only an unconcerned 
witness, but, in some degree, an efficient agent in the business. Verse 
224th is a nervous . . . expressive — "The heart convulsive anguish 
breaks." The description of the captive wretch when he arrives in the 
West Indies is carried on with equal spirit. The thought that the 




p 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 457 

oppressor''s sorrow on seeing the slave pine is like the butcher's regret 
when his destined lamb dies a natural death is exceedingly fine. 

I am got so much into the cant of criticism, that I begin to be afraid 
lest I have nothing except the cant of it ; and instead of elucidating my 
author, am only benighting myself. For this reason, I will not pretend to 
go through the whole poem. Some few remaining beautiful lines, how- 
ever, I cannot pass over. Verse 280th is the strongest description oi 
selfishness I ever saw. The comparison in verses 285th and 286th is new 
and fine; and the line, " Your arms to penury you lend,'' is excellent. 

Inverse 317th, "like" should certainly be '-as" or "so;" for instance — 

" His sway the hardened bosom leads 
To cruehy's remorseless deeds; 
As {or so) the blue lightning, when it springs 
With fury on its livid wings, 
Darts on the goal with rapid force, 
Nor heeds that ruin marks its cours";." 

If you insert the word " like" where I have placed " as," you must alter 
" darts" to "darting." and "heeds" to " heeding," in order to make it 
grammar. A tempest is a favourite subject with the poets, but I do not 
remember anything even in Thomson's " Winter" superior to your verses 
from the 347th to the 351st. Indeed the last simile, beginning with 
" Fancy may dress, '■ &c., and ending with the 350th verse, is, in my 
opinion, the most beautiful passage in the poem; it would do honour to 
the greatest names that ever graced our profession. 

I will not beg your pardon, Madam, for these strictures, as my con- 
science tells me, that for once in my life I have acted up to the duties of a 
Christian, in dointr as I would be done bv. — R. B. 



No. CLXXXIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOr. 
Dear Madam, Ellisland, 21^/ j«w?, 1789. 

Will you take the effusions, the miserable effusions, of low spirits, 
just as they flow from their bitter spring.'' I know not of any particular 
cause for this worst of all my foes besetting me ; but for some time my 
soul has been beclouded with a thickening atmosphere of evil imaginations 
and gloomy presages. 

Monday Eveuiitg. 

I have just heard Mr. Kirkpatrick preach a sermon. He is a man 
famous for his benevolence, and I revere him ; but from such ideas of my 
Creator, good Lord, deliver me ! Religion, my honoured friend, is surely 
a simple business, as it equally concern's the ignorant and the learned, the 
poor and the rich. That there is an incomprehensible Great Being, to 
whom I owe my existence ; and that He must be intimately acquainted with 
the operations and progress of the internal machinery,' and consequent 
outward deportment, of this creature which He has made ; these are, I 





-^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




think, self-evident propositions. That there is a real and eternal distinc- 
tion between virtue and vice, and, consequently, that I am an accountable 
creature ; that from the seeming nature of the human mind, as well as 
from the evident imperfection, nay, positive injustice, in the administration 
of affairs, both in the natural and moral worlds, there must be a retributive 
scene of existence beyond the grave ; must, I think, be allowed by every 
one who will give himself a moment's reflection. I will go farther, and 
affirm, that from the sublimity, excellence, and purity of His doctrine and 
precepts, unparalleled by all the aggregated wisdom and learning of many 
preceding ages, though, to appearance, He Himself was the obscurest and 
most illiterate of our species — therefore Jesus Christ was from God. 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases the happiness, of others, this 
is my criterion of goodness ; and whatever injures society at large, or any 
individual in it, this is my measure of iniquity. 

What think you, Madam, of my creed? I trust that I have said nothing 
that will lessen me in the eye of one whose good opinion I value almost 
next to the approbation of my own mind. — R. B. 



No. CXC. 

TO LADY GLENCAIRN. 
My Lady, 

The honour you have done your poor poet, in writing him so very 
obliging a letter, and the pleasure the enclosed beautiful verses have given 
him, came very seasonably to his aid amid the cheerless gloom and sinking 
despondency of diseased nerves and December weather. As to forgetting 
the family of Glencairn, Heaven is my witness with what sincerity I could 
use those old verses, which please me more in their rude simplicity than 
the most elegant lines I ever saw : — 

" If thee, Jerusalem, 1 forget. 

Skill part from my right hand. 

My tongue to my mouth's roof let cleave, 

If I do thee forget, 
Jerusalem, and thee above 

My chief joy do not set." 

When I am tempted to do anything improper. I dare not, because I 
look on myself as accountable to your ladyship and family. Now and 
then, when I have the honour to be called to the tables of the great, if I 
happen to meet with any mortitication from the stately stupidity of self- 
sufficient squires or the luxurious insolence of upstart nabobs, I get above 
the creatures by calling to remembrance that I am patronised by the 
noble house of Glencairn ; and at gala-times, such as New-year's day, a 
christening, or the Kirn-night, when my punch-bowl is brought from its 
dusty corner and filled up in honour of the occasion, I begin with, "The 
Countess of Glencairn ! "' My good woman, with the enthusiasm of a 
grateful heart next cries. " My Lord ! " and so the toast goes on until I 
end with " Lady Harriet's little angel ! " whose epithalamium I have 
pledged myself to write. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 459 



When I received your ladyship,'s letter, I was just in the act of tran- 
scribing for you some verses I have lately composed ; and meant to have 
sent them my first leisure hour, and acquainted you with my late change 
of life. I mentioned to my lord my fears concerning my farm. Those 
fears were indeed too true : it is. a bargain that would have ruined me but 
for the lucky circumstance of my having an excise commission. 

People may talk as they please of the ignominy of the excise ; 50/. a 
year will support my wife and children, and keep me independent of the 
world ; and 1 would much rather have it said that my profession borrowed 
credit from me, than that I borrowed credit from my profession. Another 
advantage I have in this business is the knowledge it gives me of the 
various shades of human character, consequently assisting me vastly in 
my poetic pursuits. I had the most ardent enthusiasm for the Muses 
when nobody knew me but myself, and that ardour is by no means cooled 
now that my Lord Glencairn''s goodness has introduced me to all the 
world. Not that I am in haste for the press. 1 have no idea of publish- 
ing, else I certainly had consulted my noble, generous patron ; but after 
acting the part of an honest man, and supporting my family, my whole 
wishes and views are directed to poetic pursuits. 1 am aware, that though 
1 were to give performances to the world superior to my former works, 
still, if they were the same kind with those, the comparative reception 
they would meet with would mortify me. I have turned my thoughts on 
the drama. I do not mean the stately buskin of the tragic Muse. 

Does not your ladyship think that an Edinburgh theatre would be more 
amused with affectation, fo'ly, and whim of true Scottish growth, than 
manners which by far t.he greatest part of the audience can only know at 
second-hand ? 

1 have the honour to be. 

Your ladyship's ever devoted 

and grateful humble Servant, 

R. B. 

No. CXCI. 
TO MR JOHN LOGAN 

[of KNOCKSHINNOCH, glen AFTON, AYRSHIRE]. 
Dear Sir, Ellisland, near Dumfries, -jth Aug., 1789. 

1 intended to have written you long ere now, and, as 1 told you, I 
had gotten three stanzas and a half on my way in a poetic epistle to you ; 
but that old enemy of all good works, the devil, threw me into a prosaic 
mire, and for the soul of me I cannot get out of it. I dare not write you 
a long letter, as I am going to intrude on vour time with a long ballad. I 
have, as you will shortly see, finished " The Kirk's Alarm " ; but now that 
it is done, and that I have laughed once or twice at the conceits in some 
of the stanzas, 1 am determinecl not to let it get into the public : so 1 send 
you this copy, the first that 1 have sent to Ayrshire, except some few of 
the stanzas, which 1 wrote off in embryo for Gavin Hamilton, under the 




±± 



Qj. 



460 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



express provision and request that you will only read it to a few of us, anr' 
do not on any account give, or permit to be taken, any copy of the ballad. 
If I could be of any service to Dr. M'Gill, I would do it, though it should 
be at a much greater expense than irritating a few bigoted priests ; but 1 
am afraid serving him in his present einbarras is a task too hard for me. 
I have enemies enow, God knows, though I do not wantonly add to the 
number. Still, as I think there is some merit in two or three of the 
thoughts, I send it to you as a small but sincere testimony how much, 
and with what respectful esteem, 

I am, dear Sir, 

Your obliged humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. CXCII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dear Madam, Elusu^nd, 6M 5.-/^, 1789. 

I have mentioned in my last my appointment to the Excise and the 
birth of little Frank ; who, by the by, I trust will be no discredit to the 
honourable name of Wallace, as he has a fine manly countenance, ard a 
figure that might do credit to a little fellow two months older, and like- 
wise an excellent good temper, though when he pleases he has a pipe onl)- 
not quite so loud as the horn that his immortal namesake blew as a signal 
to take out the pin of Stirling bridge. 

I had some time a'go an epistle, part poetic, and part prosaic, from your 
poetess, Mrs. J. Little, a very ingenious but modest composition. I 
should have written her as she requested, but for the hurry of this new 
business. I have heard of her and her compositions in this country ; and 
I am happy to add, always to the honour of her character. The fact is, 
I know not well how to write to her : I should sit down to a sheet of paper 
that I knew not how to stain. I am no dab at fine-drawn letter-writing; 
and, except when prompted by friendship or gratitude, or, which happens 
extremely rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her name) that presides 
over epistolary writing, I sit down, when necessitated to write, as I would 
sit down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August struck me with the most 
melancholy concern for the state of your mind at present. 

Would I could write you a letter of comfort ! I would sit down to it with 
as much pleasure as I would to write an epic poem of my own composi- 
tion that should equal the " Iliad." Religion, my dear friend, is the true 
comfort ! A strong persuasion in a future state of existence ; a proposition 
so obviously probable, that, setting revelation aside, every nation and 
people, so far as investigation has reached, for at least near four thousand 
years, have in some mode or other firmly believed it. In vain would we 
reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself done so to a very daring 
pitch ; but, when I reflected that I was opposing the most ardent wishes 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




and the most darling hopes of good men, and flying in the face of all 
human belief, in all ages, I was shocked at my own conduct. 

I know not whether I have ever sent you the following lines, or if you 
have ever seen them; but it is one of my favorite quotations, which I 
keep constantly by me in my progress through life, in the language of the 
book of Job, 

" Agninst the day of battle and of war " — 

spoken of religion : 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright: 
'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night : 
When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are few, 
, When friends are faithless, or when foes pursue, 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the smart, 
Disarms affliction, or repels his dart; 
Within the breast bids purest raptures rise, 
Bids smiling conscience spread her cloudless skies." 

I have been busy with •' Zeluco." The Doctor is so obliging as to 
request my "opinion of it : and I have been revolving in my mind some 
kind of criticisms on novel-writing ; but it is a depth beyond my research. 
1 shall however digest my thoughts on the subject as well as I can. 
" Zeluco" is a most sterling performance. 

Farewell ! A Dien, le bon Dieu.je voiis conimende '. — R. B. 



No. CXCIII. 
TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL, 



[The " important day " was that on which the contest with the famous Danish 
whistle was to take place at Captain Riddel's — the contest, who of the company 
could drink deepest and longest without losing the power of blowing the whistle.] 

Sir, Elusland, i6M Oct., 1789. 

Big with the idea of this important day at Friars Carse, I have 
watched the elements and skies in the full persuasion that they would 
announce it to the astonished world by some phenomena of terrific por- 
tent. Yesternight until a very late hour did I wait with anxious horror 
for the appearance of some comet firing half the sky, or aerial armies of 
sanguinary Scandinavians, darting athwart the startled heavens, rapid as 
the ragged lightning, and horrid as those convulsions of nature that bury 
nations. 

The elements, however, seem to take the matter very quietly : they did 
not even usher in this morning with triple suns and a shower of blood, 
symbolical of the three potent heroes and the mighty claret-shed of the 
day. For me, as Thomson in his '-Winter" says of the storm, I shall 
■' Hear astonished, and astonished sing " 



The- whistle and the man : I sing 
The man that won the whistle, &c. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 






Here are we met, three merry boys; 

Three merry boys I trow are we; 
And mony a night we've merry been, 

And mony niae we hope to be. 

Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold coward loun is he : 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king amang lis three. 

To lea\e the heights of Parnas.sus and come to the humble vale oi 
prose — I have some misgivings that I take too much upon me, when I 
request you to get your guest, Sir Robert Lowrie, to frank the two enclosed 
covers for me : the one of them to Sir William Cunningham, of Robert- 
land, Bart., at Kilmarnock; the other to Mr. Allan Masterton, Writing- 
Master, Edinburgh. The first has a kindred claim on Sir Robert, as 
being a brother baronet, and likewise a keen Foxite ; the other is one of 
the worthiest men in the world, and a man of real genius ; so, allow me 
to say, he has a fraternal claim on you. I want them franked for to- 
morrow, as I cannot get them to the post to-night. I shall send a servant 
again for them in the evening. Wishing that your head may be crowned 
with laurels to-night, and free from aches to-morrow, 
I have the honour to be. Sir, 

Your deeply indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. CXCIV. 

TO MR. ROBERT AINSLIE. 

My dear Friend Ellisland, \st Nmieniber, 1789. 

I had written you long ere now, could I have guessed where to 
find you ; for I am sure you have more good sense than to waste the 
precious days of vacation time in the dirt of business and Edinburgh. 
Wherever you are, God bless you, and lead you not into temptation, but 
deliver vou from evil ! 

I do 'not know if I have informed you that I am now appointed to an 
excise division, in the middle of which my house and farm lie. In this I 
was extremely lucky. Without ever having been an expectant, as they 
call their journeymen excisemen, I was directly planted down to all intents 
and purposes an officer of excise, there to flourish and bring forth fruits — 
worthy of repentance. 

I know not how the word exciseman, or, still more opprobrious, gauger, 
will sound in your ears. I too have seen the day, when my auditory 
nerves would have felt very delicately on this subject ; but a wife and 
children are things which have a wonderful power in blunting these kind 
of sensations. Fifty pounds a year for life, and a provision for widows and 
orphans, you will allow is no bad settlement for a poet. For the ignominy 
of the profession, I have the encouragement which I once heard a recruit- 
ing Serjeant give to a numerous, if not a respectable, audience, in the 
streets of Kilmarnock : " Gentlemen, for your further and better encourage- 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 463 

ment, I can assure you that our regiment is the most blackguard corps 
under the crown, and, consequently, with us an honest fellow has the surest 
chance for preferment/' 

You need not doubt that I find several very unpleasant and disagree- 
able circumstances in my business ; but I am tired with and disgusted at 
the language of complaint against the evils of life. Human existence hi 
the most favourable situations does not abound with pleasures, and has its 
inconveniences and ills : capricious, foolish man mistakes these inconven- 
iences and ills, as if they were the peculiar property of his particular 
situation ; and hence that eternal fickleness, that love of change, which 
has ruined, and daily does ruin, many a fine fellow, as well as many 
a blockhead, and is, almost without exception, a constant source oi 
disappointment and misery. 

1 long to hear from you how you go on — not so much in business, as in 
life. Are you pretty well satisfied with your own exertions, and tolerably 
at ease in your internal reflections? 'Tis much to be a great character as 
a lawyer, but beyond comparison more to be a great character as a man. 
That you may be both the one and the other is the earnest wish, and that 
vou %iJill be both is the firm persuasion, of, 

My dear Sir, &c., 

R. B. 



No. CXCV. 

TO MR. RICHARD BROWN. 

Ellisland, i,th November, 1789. 

I HAVE been so hurried, my ever dear friend, that though I got both 
your letters, I have not been able to command an hour to answer them as 
I wished ; and even now you are to look on this as merely confess- 
ing debt, and craving da\-s. Few things could have given me so much 
pleasure as the news that you were once more safe and sound on terra 
firma, and happy in that place where happiness is alone to be found, in 
the fireside circle. May the benevolent Director of all things peculiarly 
bless you in all those endearing connexions consequent on the tender and 
venerable names of husband and father ! I have indeed been extremely lucky 
in getting an additional income of ^50 a year, while, at the .same time, the 
appointment will not cost me above ^'10 or £\2 per annum of expenses 
more than I must have inevitably incurred. The worst circumstance is, 
that the excise division which I have got is so extensive, no less than ten 
parishes to ride over; and it abounds besides with so much business, that 
I can scarcely steal a spare moment. However, labour endears rest, and 
both together are absolutely necessary for the proper enjoyment of human 
existence. I cannot meet you anywhere. No less than an order from the 
Board of Excise, at Edinburgh, is necessary before I can have so much 
time as to meet you in Ayrshire. But do you come and see me. We 
must have a social day, and perhaps lengthen it out with half the night, 
before )ou go again to sea. You are the earliest friend 1 now Imve on 





^ 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



earth, my brothers excepted; and is not that an endearing circumstance? 
When you and I first met, we were at the green period of human life. 
The twig would easily take a bent, but would as easily return to its former 
state. You and I not only took a mutual bent, but by the melancholy, 
though strong, influence of being both of the family of the unfortunate, we 
were entwined with one another in our growth towards advanced age ; and 
blasted be the sacrilegious hand that shall attempt to undo the union I 
You and I must have one bumper to my favourite toast, " May the com- 
panions of our youth be the friends of our old age ! "' Come and see me 
one year ; I shall see you at Port Glasgow the next : and if we can contrive 
to have a gossiping between our two bedfellows, it will be so much addi- 
tional pleasure. Mrs. Burns joins me in kind compliments to you and 
Mrs. Brown. Adieu ! 

I am ever, my dear Sir, yours, 

R. B. 



No. CXCVI. 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., 

OF FINTRV. 
Sir, 'ith December, 1789. 

I have a good while had a wish to trouble you with a letter, and 
had certainly done it long ere now, but for a humiliating something that 
throws cold water on the resolution, as if one should say, " You have found 
Mr. Graham a very powerful and kind friend indeed, and that interest he 
is so kindly taking in your concerns, you ought by everything in your 
power to keep alive and cherish." Now, though since God has thought 
proper to make one powerful and another helpless, the connexion of 
obliger and obliged is all fair; and though my being under your patron- 
age is to me highly honourable, yet, Sir, allow me to flatter myself, that 
as a poet and an honest man you first interested yourself in my welfare, 
and principally as such still you permit me to approach you. 

I have found the excise business go on a great deal smoother with me 
than I expected ; owing a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. 
Mitchel, my collector, and the kind a.ssistance of Mr. Findlater, my 
supervisor. I dare to be honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find my 
hurried life greatly inimical to my correspondence with the Muses. Their 
visits to me, indeed, and I believe to most of their accjuaintance, like the 
visits of good angels, are short and far between ; but I meet them now and 
then as I jog through the hills of Nithsdale, just as I used to do on the 
banks of Ayr. I take the liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of 
them the production of my leisure thoughts in my excise rides. 

If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, the antiquarian, you will 
enter' into any humour that is in the verses on him. Perhaps you have 
seen them before, as I sent them to a London newspaper. Though I 
dare say you have none of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire which 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



465 



shone so conspicuous in Lord George Gordon and the Kihnarnock 
weavers, yet I think you must have heard of Dr. M'Gill, one of the clergy- 
men of Ayr, and his heretical book. God help him, poor man ! Though 
he is one of the worthiest, as well as one of the ablest, of the whole priest- 
hood of the Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous term, 
yet the poor Doctor and his numerous family are in imminent danger of 
being thrown out to the mercy of the winter winds. The enclosed ballad 
on that business is, I confess, too local ; but I laughed myself at some 
conceits in it. though I am convinced in my conscience that there are a 
good many heavy stanzas in it too. 

The election ballad, as you will see, alludes to the present canvass in 
our string of boroughs. I do not believe there will be such a hard-run 
match in the whole general election. 

I am too little a man to have any political attachments ; I am deeply 
indebted to, and have the warmest veneration for, individuals of both 
parties ; but a man who has it in his power to be the father of a country, 

and who , is a character that one cannot speak of with 

patience. 1 

Sir ]■ ]■ does what " what man can do," but yet I doubt his fate. 



No. CXCVII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 13M December, 1789. 

Many thanks, dear Madam, for your sheet-full of rhymes. Though 
at present I am below the veriest jarose, yet from you everything pleases. 
I am groaning under the miseries of a diseased nervous system — a system, 
the state of which is most conducive to our happiness, or the most pro- 
ductive of our misery. For now near three weeks I have been so ill with 
a nervous headache, that I have been obliged for a time to give up my 
excise-books, being scarce able to lift my head, much less to ride once a 
week over ten muir parishes. What is man? — To-day, in the luxuriance 
of health, exulting in the enjoyments of existence ; in a few days, perhaps 
in a few hours, loaded with conscious painful being, counting the tardy 
pace of the lingering moments by the repercussions of anguish, and 
refusing or denied a comforter. Day follows night, and night comes after 
day. only to curse him with life which gives him no pleasure ; and yet the 
awful, dark termination of that life is something at which he recoils. 

"Tell us, ye dead; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

What ^tis yoii are, and lue must shortly be ? 



■ tis no matter : 



A little time will make us learned as you are." 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this frail, feverish 
still find myself in conscious existence? When the last gasp 

1 This is evidently '• Old Q.," the Duke of Queensbetry. 



eing, I shall 
A agony has 



ll-C 466 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

announced that I am no more to those that knew me, and the few who 
loved me : when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly corse is resigned 
into the earth, to be the prey of unsightly reptiles, and to become in time 
a trodden clod, shall I be yet warm in life, seeing and seen, enjoying and 
enjoyed? Ye venerable sages and holy flamens, is there probability in 
vour conjectures, truth in your stories, of another world beyond death ; or 
are they all alike, baseless visions and fabricated fables? If there is 
another life, it must be only for the just, the benevolent, the amiable, and 
the humane : what a flattering idea, then, is a world to come ! Would to 
God I as firmly believed it, as I ardently wish it! There I shall meet 
an aged parent, now at rest from the many buffetings of an evil world, 
against which he so long and bravely struggled. There should 1 meet the 
friend, the disinterested friend, of my early life ; the man who rejoiced to 
see me, because he -loved me and could serve me. Muir, thy weaknesses 
were the aberrations of human nature, but thy heart glowed with every- 
thing generous, manly, and noble ; and if ever emanation from the All- 
good Being animated a human form, it was thine ! There should I, with 
speechless agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, my ever dear Mary ! 
whose bosom was fraught with truth, honour, constancy, and love. 

" My Mary, dear departed shade, 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? " 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters ! I trust thou art no impostor, 
and that Thy revelation of blissful scenes of existence beyond death and 
the grave is not one of the many impositions which time after time have 
been palmed on credulous mankind. I trust that in Thee "shall all the 
families of the earth be blessed," by being yet connected together in a 
better world, where every tie that bound heart to heart in this state of 
existence shall be, far beyond our present conceptions, more endearing. 

I am a good deal inclined to think with those who maintain, that what 
are called nervous affections are in fact diseases of the mind. I cannot 
reason, I cannot think ; and. but to you, I would not venture to write any- 
thing above an order to a cobbler. Vou have felt too much of the ills ot 
life not to sympathise with a diseased wretch, who has impaired more than 
half of any faculties he possessed. Your goodness will excuse this 
distracted scrawl, which the writer dare scarcely read, and which he 
viould throw into the fire, were he able to write anything better, or indeed 
anything at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of yours, who was returned from 
the East or West Indies. If you have 'gotten news from James or 
Anthony, it was cruel in you not to let me know; as I promise you, on 
the sincerity of a man who is weary of one world, and anxious about 
another, that scarce anything could give me so much pleasure as to hear of 
any good thing befalling my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your pen in pity to le panvre 
miserable. — R. B. 



THE LET TENS OF BL'RAS. 




No. CXCVIII. 

TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

Sir, 1790- 

The following circumstance has, I believe, been omitted in the sta- 
tistical account transmitted to you of the parish of Dunscore, in Nithsdale. 
I beg leave to send it to you, because it is new, and may be useful. How 
far it is deserving of a place in your patriotic publication, you are the besi 
judge. 

To store tiie minds of the lower classes with useful knowledge is cer- 
tainly of very great importance, both to them as individuals, and to society 
at large. Giving them a turn for reading and reflection is giving them a 
source of innocent and laudable anuisement, and, l^esrdes, raises them to 
a more dignified degree in the scale of rationality. Impressed with this 
idea, a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, set on 
foot a species of circulating library, on a plan so simple as to be practi- 
cable in any corner of the country ; and so useful, as to deserve the notice 
of every country gentleman who thinks the improvement of that part of 
his own species whom chance has thrown into the humble walks of the 
peasant and the artizan a matter worthy of his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his own tenants and farming neighbours 
to form themselves into a society for the purpose" of having a library among 
themselves. They entered into a legal engagement to abide by it for 
three years ; with a saving clause or two, in case of a removal to a 
distance, or death. Each member, at his entry, paid five shillings ; and 
at each of their meetings, which were held every fourth Saturday, sixpence 
more. With their entry-money, and the credit whicli they took on the 
faith of their future fi.inds, they laid in a tolerable stock of books at the 
commencement. What authors they were to purchase was always de- 
cided by the majority. At every meeting all the books, under certain 
fines and forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be produced ; and the 
members had their choice of the volumes in rotation. He whose name 
stood, for that night, first on the list, had his choice of what volume lie 
pleased in the whole collection ; the second had his choice after the first ; 
the third after the second, and so on to the last. At next meeting, he 
who had been first on the list at the preceding meeting, was last at this ; 
he who had been second was first ; and so on, through the whole three 
years. At the expiration of the engagement, the books were sold by 
auction, but only among the members themselves ; each man had his 
share of the common stock, in money or in books, as he chose to be a 
purchaser or not. 

At the breaking up of this iittle society, which was formed under Mr. 
Riddel's patronage, what with benefactions of books from him, and what 
with their own purchases, they had collected together upwards of one 
hundred and fifty volumes. It will easily be guessed, that a good deal of 
trash would be bought. Among the books, however, of this little library 
were Blair's Sermons, Robertson's Historv of Scotland, Hume's Histor\- of 



T^ 




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IS 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



the Stewarts, "The Spectator/' "Idler," "Adventurer." "Mirror,"" 
"Lounger," "Observer," "Man of Feeling," "Man of the World," 
" Chrysal," "Don Quixote," "Joseph Andrews," &c. A peasant who 
can read and enjoy such books is certainly a much superior being to his 
neighbour who, perhaps, stalks beside his team very little removed, except 
in shape, from the brutes he drives. 
Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much merited success, 

I am. Sir, 

Your humble Servant, 

A Peasant. 

No. CXCIX. 

TO LADY WINIFRED MAXWELL CONSTABLE. 

[Loay Winifred was grand-daughter of the Earl of Nithsdale, the romantic story 
of whose escape from the Tower (wheie he was imprisoned for his share in the 
insurrection of 17 15), through the heroism of his wife, is well known. She mar- 
vied William Haggerston Constable, of Everingham.] 

Ellisland, \bth Dec, 1789. 

. . . To court the notice or the tables of the great, except where I 
sometimes have had a little matter to ask of them, or more often the 
pleasanter task of witnessing my gratitude to them, is what I have never 
done, and I trust never aliall do. But with your ladyship I have the 
honour to be connected by one of the strongest and most endearing ties 
in the whole moral world ; common sufferings in a cause where even to 
be unfortunate is glorious — the cause of heroic loyalty ! Though my 
fathers had not illustrious honours and vast properties to hazard in the 
contest, though they left their humble cottages only to add so many units 
more to the unnoted crowd that followed their leaders, yet what they 
could they did, and what they had they lost : with unshaken firmness and 
unconcealed political attachments, they shook hands with ruin for what 
they esteemed the cause of their king and their country. This language 
and the enclosed verses [addressed "to Mr. William Tytler] are for your 
ladyship's eyes alone. Poets are not very famous for their prudence ; but 
as 1 can do nothing for a cause which is now nearly no more, I do not 
wish to hurt myself. — R. B. 

No. CC. 
TO CHARLES SHARPE, ESQ., 

OF HODDAM. 

[Mr. Sharpe was a man of some accomplishments — a good violinist and a com- 
poser of original music. He also wrote verses for his own airs. The following 
letter was written by Burns under a fictitious signature, enclosing a ballad, in 1 790 
or 1791.] 

It is true. Sir, you are a gentleman of rank and fortune, and I am a 
poor devil ; you are a feather in the cap of fjociety, and I am a very 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



hcbnail in his shoes ; yet I have the honour to belong to the same family 
with you, and on that score I now address you. You will perhaps suspect 
that I am going to claim affinity with the ancient and honourable house of 
Kirkpatrick. No, no, Sir: I cannot indeed be properly said to belong to 
any house, or even any province or kingdom ; as my mother, who for 
many years was spouse to a marching regiment, gave me into this bad 
world, aboard the packet-boat, somewhere between Donaghadee and Port- 
patrick. By our common family I mean. Sir, the family of the Muses. I 
am a fiddler and a poet ; and you, I am told, play an exquisite violin, and 
have a standard taste in the belles lettres. The other day, a brother 
catgut gave me a charming Scots air of your composition. If I was 
pleased with the tune, 1 was In raptures with the title you have given it; 
and. taking up the idea, I have spun it into the three stanzas enclosed. 
Will' you allow me. Sir, to present you them, as the dearest offering that 
a misbegotten son of poverty and rhyme has to give? I have a longing to 
take you by the hand and unburthen my heart by saying, •' Sir, I honour 
you as a man who supports the dignity of human nature amid an age when 
frivolity and avarice have, between them, debased us below the brutes 
that perinh ! ■" But, alas. Sir ! to me you are unapproachable. It is true, 
the Muses baptized me in Castalian streams, but the thoughtless gipsies 
forgot to give me a name. As the sex have served many a good fellow, 
the Nine have given me a great deal of pleasure, but, bewitching jades ! 
they have beggared me. Would the}- but spare me a little of their cast- 
linen ! Were it only in my power to say that I have a shirt on my back ! 
But, the idle wenches ! like'Solomon's lilies, " they toil not, neither do they 
spin": so I must e'en continue to tie my remnant of a cravat, like the 
hangman's rope, round my naked throat, and coax my galligaskins to keep 
together their many-coloured fragments. As to the affair of shoes, I have 
given that up. My pilgrimages in my ballad-trade, from town to town, 
and on your stony-hearted turnpikes too, are what not even the hide of 
Job's Behemoth could bear. The coat on my back is no more : I shall 
not speak evil of the dead. It would be equally unhandsome and un- 
grateful to find fault with my old surtout, which so kindly supplies and 
conceals the want of that coat. My hat indeed is a great favourite ; and 
though I got it literally for an old song, I would not exchange it for the 
best beaver in Britain. 1 was, during several years, a kind of fac-totum 
servant to a country clergyman, where I pickt up a good many scraps of 
learning, particularly in some branches of the mathematics. Whenever I 
feel inclined to rest myself on my way, I take my seat under a hedge, 
laying my poetic wallet on the one side, and my fiddle-case on the other, 
and placing my hat between my legs, I can by means of its brim, or 
rather brims, go through the whole doctrine of the Conic Sections. 

However, Sir, don't let me mislead you, as if I would interest your pity. 
Fortune has so much forsaken me, that she has taught me to live without 
her ; and amid all ni)' rags and poverty, I am as independent, and much 
more happy, than a monarch of the world. According to the hackneyed 
metaphor, I value the several actors in the great drama of life simply as 
they act tlieir parts. I can look on a worthless fellow of a duke with 






^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



unqualified contemot, and can regard an honest scavenger with sincere 
respect. As you. Sir, go through your role with such distinguished merit, 
permit me to make one in the chorus of universal applause, and assure you 
that, with the highest respect, 

I have the honour to be, &c. 



TO MR. GILBERT P5URNS. 

Dear Brother, Ellisland, hz/^ 7rt«?<rto/, 1790. 

I mean to take advantage of the frank, though I have not in my 
present frame of mind much appetite for exertion in writing. My nerves 
are in a cursed state. I feel that horrid hypochondria pervading every 
atom of both body and soul. This farm has undone my enjoyment of 
myself. It is a ruinous affair on all hands. But let it go to hell! I'll 
fight it out and be off with it. 

We have gotten a set of very decent players here just now. 1 have seen 
them an evening or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me by the 
manager of the company, a Mr. Sutherland, who is a man of apparent 
worth. On New-year-day evening I gave him the following prologue, 
which he spouted to his audience with applause : — 

No song or dance I bring from yon great city, 
That queens it o'er our taste — the more's the pity: 
Tho', by the by, abroad why will you roam? 
Good sense and taste are natives here at home. 

I can no more. — If once I am clear of this curst farm, I should respire 
more at my ease. — R. B. 

No. ecu. 
TO MR. WILLIAM DUNBAR, W. S. 

Ellisland, \i,tli January, 1790. 

Since we are here creatures of a day, since a "few summer days, 
and a few winter nights, and the life of man is at an end,'' why, my dear, 
much-esteemed Sir, should you and I let negligent indolence — for I know 
it is nothing worse — step in between us, and bar the enjoyment of a mutual 
correspondence? We are not shapen out of the common, heavy, method- 
ical clod, the elemental stuff of the plodding, selfish race, the sons of 
Arithmetic and Prudence ; our feelings and hearts are not benumbed and 
poisoned by the cursed influence of riches, which, whatever blessing there 
may be in other respects, are no friends to the nobler qualities of the heart : 
in the name of random sensibility, then, let never the moon change on 
our silence any more. I have hacl a tract of bad health most part of this 
winter, else you had heard from me long ere now. Thank Heaven, I am 
now got so much better as to be able to partake a little in the enjoyments 
of life. 



llr THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



Our friend Cunningham will perhaps have told you of mj' going into the 
Excise. The truth is, I found it a very convenient business to have 50/. 
per annum, nor have I yet felt any of those mortifying circumstances in it 
that I was led to fear. 



I HAVE not, for sheer hurry of bur.iness, been able to spare five minutes 
to finish my letter. Besides my f?rm business, I ride on my Excise 
matters at least 200 miles every v/eek. I have not by any means given 
up the Muses. You will see in the third vol. of Johnson's " Scots Songs "' 
that I have contributed my mite there. 

But, my dear Sir, little ones that look up to you for parental protection 
are an important charge. I have already two fine, healthy, stout little 
fellows, and I wish 10 throw some light upon them. I have a thousand 
reveries and schemes about them and their future destiny — not that I am 
a Utopian projector in these things. I am resolved never to breed up a 
son of mine to any of the learned professions. I know the value of inde- 
pendence, and since I cannot give my sons an independent fortune, I shall 
give them an independent line of life. What a chaos of hurry, chance, and 
changes is this world, when one sits soberly down to reflect on it ! To a 
father, who himself knows the world, the thought that he shall have sons 
to usher into it must fill him with dread ; but if he have daughters, the 
prospect to a thoughtful man is apt to shock him. 

I hope Mrs. Fordyce and the two young ladies are well. Do let me 
forget that they are nieces of yours, and let me say that I never saw a 
more interesting, sweeter pair of sisters in my life. I am the fool of 
my feelings and attachments. I often take up a volume of my Spenser 
[which Mr. Dunbar had presented to him] to realise you to my imagination, 
and think over those social scenes we have had together. God grant that 
there may be another world more congenial to honest fellows beyond this ; 
a world where these rubs and plagues of absence, distance, misfortunes, ill 
health, &c., shall no more damp hilarity and divide friendship. — R. B. 



No. CCIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 25//; January, 1790. 

It has been owing to unremitting hurry of business that I have not 
written to you, Madam, long ere now. My health is greatly better, and I 
now begin once more to share in satisfaction and enjoyment with the rest 
of my fellow-creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for your kind letters : but why 
will you make me run the risk of being contemptible and mercenary in my 
own eyes? When I pique myself on my independent spirit, I hope it is 
neitiier poetic licence, nor poetic rant ; and I am so flattered with the 
honour you have done me, in making me your compeer in friendship and 




^ 





^ 



472 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




friendly correspondence, that I cannot without pain, and a degree of 
mortification, be reminded of the real inequality between our situations. 

Most sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear Madam, in the good news of 
Anthony. Not only your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem for 
such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young fellow in the little I had of his 
acquaintance, has interested me deeply in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the " Shipwreck," which you so 
much admire, is no more. After witnessing the dreadful catastrophe he 
so feelingly describes in his poem, and after weathering many hard gales 
of fortune, he went to the bottom with the '• Aurora" frigate! 

I forget what part of Scotland had ihe honour of giving him birth ; but 
he was the son of obscurity and misfortime. He wiis one of those daring 
adventurous spirits which Scotland, beyond any other country, is remark- 
able for producing. Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs 
delighted over the sweet litth leech at her bosom, where the poor fellow 
may hereafter wander, and what may be his fate. I remember a stanza in 
an old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstanding its rude simplicity, speaks 
feelingly to the heart : — 

" Little did my mother think, 
That d.iy she cradled me, 
What land I was to travel in. 
Or what death I should die ! " 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite study and pursuit of mine ; 
and now I am on that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas of another 
old simple ballad, which I am sure will please you. The catastrophe of 
the piece is a poor ruined female, lamenting her fate. She concludes with 
this pathetic wish : — 

" O that my father had ne'er on me smil'd! 
O that my mother had ne'er to me sung! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 
But that I had died when I was young! 

O that the grave it were my bed; 

My blankets were my winding sheet ; 
The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; 

And O sae sound as I should sleep! " 

I do not remember, in all my reading, to have met with anything more 
truly the language of misery than the exclamation in the last line. Misery 
is like love ; "to speak its language truly, the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to give your little godson 1 the 
small-pox. They are rife in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By 
the way, I cannot help congratulating you on his looks and spirit. Every 
person who sees him, acknowledges him to be the finest, handsomest child 
he has ever seen. I am myself delighted with the manly swell of his little 
chest, and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage of his head, and the 
glance of his fine black eye, which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
independent mind. 

' His second son, Francis. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 473 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but time forbids. I promise 
you poetry until you are tired of it next time I have the honour of assuring 
you how trul}- I am, &c. — R. B. 



No. CCIV. 
TO MR. PETER HILL, 

BOOKSELLER, EDINBURGH. 

Ellisland, ■2nd Feb., 1790. 

No ! I will not say one word about apologies or excuses for not 
writing ; I am a poor, rascally ganger, condemned to gallop at least 200 
miles every week to inspect dirty ponds and yeasty barrels, and where can 
I find time to write to, or importance to interest, anybody? The upbraid- 
ings of my conscience, nay. the upbraidings of my wife, have persecuted me 
on your account these two or three months past. I wish to God I was a 
great man, that my correspondence might throw light upon you, to let the 
world see what you really are ; and then I would make your fortune, 
without putting my hand in my pocket for you, which, like all other great 
men, I suppose I would avoid as much as possible. What are you doing, 
and how are vou doing? Have you lately seen any of my few friends? 
What has become of the Borough Reform, or how is the fate of my poor 
namesake Mademoiselle Burns decided? . . . O man! but for thee, and 
thy selfish appetites and dishonest artifices, that beauteous form, and that 
once innocent and still ingenuous mind, might have shone conspicuous 
and lovely in the faithful wife and the affectionate mother; and shall the 
unfortunate sacrifice to thy pleasures have no claim on thy humanity? 

I saw lately in a Review some extracts from a new poem called " The 
Village Curate": send it me. I want likewise a cheap copy of '"The 
World." Mr. Armstrong, the young poet, who does me the honour to 
mention me so kindly in his works, please give him my best thanks for the 
copy of his book : I shall write him my first leisure hour. 1 like his poetry 
much, but I think his style in prose quite astonishing. — R. B. 



No. CCV. 

SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 

[The Poet's marriage did not entirely break off his correspondence with Mrs. 
M'Lehose. She had written to him reproachfully, and the following is his reply.] 

Feb., 1790 (?). 
I HAVE indeed been ill. Madam, the whole winter. An incessant head- 
ache, depression of spirits, and all the truly miserable consequences of a 
deranged nervous system, have made dreadful havoc of my health and 
peace. Add to all this, a line of life into which I have lately entered 




^" 





^ 



4 74 THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 

obliges me to ride, on the average, at least 200 miles every week. However, 
thank Heaven, I am now greatly better in my health. . . . 

I cannot, will not, enter into extenuatory circumstances ; else I could 
show you how my precipitate, headlong, unthinking conduct leagued with a 
conjuncture of unlucky events to thrust me out of a possibility of keeping 
the path of rectitude to curse me, by an irreconcileable war between my 
duty and my nearest wishes, and to damn me with a choice only of different 
species of error and misconduct. 

1 dare not trust myself further with this subject. The following song is 
one of my latest productions, and I send it you as I would do anything 
else, because it pleases myself. 

[Here follows " My Lovely Nancy," given in page 90.] 



No. CCVI. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 

My dear Sir, Elusland, Feb. g, 1790. 

That d-mned mare of yours is dead. I would freely have given 
her price to have saved her ; she has vexed me beyond description. 
Indebted as I was to your goodness beyond what I can ever repay, I 
eagerly grasped at your ofter to have the mare with me. That I might at 
least show my readiness in wishing to be grateful, I took every care of her 
in my power. She was never crossed for riding above half a score of 
times by me or in my keeping. I drew her in the plough, one of three, for 
one poor week. I refused fifty-five shillings for her, which was the highest 
bode I could squeeze for her. I fed her up and had her in fine order for 
Dumfries fair, when, four or five days before the fair, she was seized with 
an unaccountable disorder in the sinews, or somewhere in the bones of the 
neck ; with a weakness or total want of power in her fillets ; and, in short, 
the whole vertebrae of her spine seemed to be diseased and unhinged : and 
in eight and forty hours, in spite of the two best farriers in the country, 
she died — and be d-mned to her ! The farriers said that she had been 
quite strained in the fillets beyond cure before you had bought her : and 
that the poor devil, though she might keep a little flesh, had been jaded 
and quite worn out with fatigue and oppression. While she was with me, 
she was under my own eye : and I assure you, my much valued friend, 
everything was done for her that could be done : and the accident has 
vexed me to the heart. In fact, I could not pluck up spirits to write to 
you on account of the unfortunate business. 

There is little new in this country. Our theatrical company, of which 
you must have heard, leave us this week. Their merit and character are 
indeed very great, both on the stage and in private life ; not a worthless 
creature among them ; and their encouragement has been accordingly. 
Their usual run is from eighteen to twenty-five pounds a night : seldom 
less than the one, and the house will hold no more than the other. There 
have been repeated instances of sending away six, and eight, and ten 



nT=q= 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



475 



pounds a night for want of room. A new theatre is to be built by sub- 
scription : the first stone is to be laid on Friday first to come. Three 
hundred guineas have been raised by thirty subscribers, and thirty m.ore 
might have been got if wanted. The manager, Mr. Sutherland, was intro- 
duced to me by a friend from Ayr ; and a worthier or cleverer fellow I 
have rarely met with. Some of our clergy have slipped in by stealth now 
and then; but they have got up a farce of their own. You must have 
heard how the Rev. Mr. Lawson of Kirkmahoe, seconded by the Rev. Mr. 
Kirkpatrick of Dunscore, and the rest of that faction, have accused in 
formal process the unfortunate and Rev. Mr. Heron of Kirkgunzeon, that 
in ordaining Mr. Nielson to the cure of souls in Kirkbean he, the said 
Heron, feloniously and treasonably bound the said Nielson to the con- 
fession of faith, so far as it was agreeable to reason and the Word of God'. 
Mrs. B. begs to be remembered most gratefully to you. Little Bobby 
and Frank are charmingly well and healthy. I am jaded to death with 
fatigue. For these two or three months, on an average, I have not ridden 
less than two hundred miles per week. I have done little in the poetic 
way : I have given Mr Sutherland two prologues ; one of which was 
delivered last week. I have likewise strung four or five barbarous stanzas, 
to the tune of Chevy Chase, by way of Elegy on your poor unfortunate 
mare, beginning (the name she got here was Peg Nicholson) : 

"Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare. 
As ever trod on airn : 
But now she's floating down the N'th, 
And past the mouth o' Cairn." — &c. {Page 155.) 

My best compliments to Mrs. Nicol, and little Neddy, and all the 
family. I hope Ned is a good scholar, and will come out to gather nuts 
and apples with me next harvest. — R. B. 




No. CCVII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 13^// February, 1790. 

I BEG your pardon, my dear and much valued friend, for writing to you 
on this very unfashionable, unsightly sheet — 

" My poverty, but not ray will, consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish post I have none, e.^cept one poor 
widowed half-sheet of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my plebeian 
foolscap pages, like the widow of a man of fashion, whorn that unpolite 
scoundrel. Necessity, has driven from Burgundy and Pineapple to a dish 
of Bohea, with the scandal-bearing helpmate of a village priest; or a glass 
of whisky-toddy, with a ruby-nosed yoke-fellow of a foot-padding excise- 
man ; I make a vow to enclose this sheet-full of epistolary fragments in 
that my only scrap of gilt paper. 

I am indeed your unworthy debtor for three friendly letters. I ought 
to have written to you long ere now : but it is a literal fact. T have scarcely 




-t£^ 



^ 476 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

a spare moment. It is not that I ivill not write to you; Miss Burnet is 
not more dear to iier guardian angel, nor his Grace the Duke of Queens- 
berry to the powers of darkness, than my friend Cunningham to me. It is 
not that I cannot write to )0u : should you doubt it. take the following 
fragment, which was intended for you some time ago, and be convinced 
that I can antithesise sentiment, and circwnvolute periods, as well as any 
coiner of phrase in the regions of philology : — 

My dear Cunningham, December, 1789. 

Where are you? And what are you doing? Can you be that son 
of levity who takes up a friendship as he takes up a fashion? or are you, 
like some other of the worthiest fellows in the world, the victim of 
indolence, laden with fetters of ever-increasing weight? 

What strange beings we are ! Since we have a portion of conscious 
existence equally capable of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or 
of suftering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it is surely worthy of an 
inquiry, whether there be not such a thing as a science of life ; whether 
method, economy, and fertility of expedients be not applicable to enjoy- 
ment ; and whether there be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which 
renders our little scantling of happiness still less, and a profuseness, an 
intoxication in bliss, which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhorrence. 
There is not a doubt but that health, talents, character, decent com- 
petency, respectable friends, are real substantial blessings ; and yet do we 
not daily see those who enjoy many or all of these good things contrive, 
notwithstanding, to be as unhappy as others to whose lot few of them have 
fallen? I believe one great source of this mistake or misconduct is owing 
to a certain stimulus, with us called ambition, which goads us up the hill 
of life, not as we ascend other eminences, for the laudable curiosity 
of viewing an extended landscape, but rather for the dishonest pride of 
looking down on others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly diminutive in 

humbler stations, &c., &c. 

I 

Sunday, \a,th February, 1790. 

God help me ! I am now obliged to join 

" Night to day, and Sunday to the week." 

If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of these churches, I am d-mned 
past redemption, and, what is worse, d-mned to all eternity. I am deeply 
read in Boston's "Fourfold State," Marshal on Sanctification, Guthrie's 
" Trial of a Saving Interest," &c. ; but " there is no balm in Gilead, there is 
no physician there," for me : so I shall e'en turn Arminian, and trust to 
"sincere though imperfect obedience." 

Tuesday, 16th. 

Luckily for me, I was prevented from the discussion of the knotty 
point at which I had just made a full stop. All my fears and care are of 
this world : if there is another, an honest man has nothing to fear from it. 
I hate a man that wishes to be a Deist : but I fear every fair, unprejudiced 




s 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



477 



inquirer must in some degree be a Sceptic. It is not that there are any 
very staggering arguments against the immortality of man ; but, like elec- 
tricity, phlogiston, &c., the subject is so involved in darkness, that we want 
data to go upon. One thing frightens me much : that we are to live for 
e\er seems too good news to be true. That we are to enter into a new 
scene of existence, where, exempt from want and pain, we shall enjoy 
ourselves and our friends without satiety or separation— how much should 
I be indebted to any one who could fully assure me that this was 
certain! 

My time is once more expired. I will write to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God 
bless him and all his concerns ! And may all the powers that preside 
over conviviality and friendship be present with all their kindest influence 
when the bearer of this, Air. Syme, and you meet ! — I wish I could also 
make one. 

Finally, brethren, farewell ! Whatsoever things are lovely, whatsoever 
things are gentle, whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever things are 
kind, think on these things, and think on 

R. B. 



No. CCVIII. 

TO MR. HILL. 

[The order for the works of the dramatists is supposed to indicate a design on 
Burns's part to try his own hand at dramatic composition.] 

Ellisland, ■zd March, 1790. 

.... In addition to the books I commissioned in my last, I want very 
much " An Index to the Excise Laws, or an Abridgment of all the 
Statutes now in force relative to the Excise," by Jellinger Symons : I want 
three copies of this book ; if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, get it for 
me. An honest country neighbour of mine wants too a Family Bible, the 
larger the better, but second-handed, for he does not choose to give above 
ten shillings for the book. I want likewise for myself, as you can pick 
them up, second-handed or cheap, copies of Otway's Dramatic Works, 
Ben Jonson's, Dryden's, Congreve's, Wycherley's, Vanbrugh's, Gibber's, or 
any Dramatic Works of the more modern, Macklin, Garrick, Foote, Gol- 
man, or Sheridan. A good copy too of Moliere, in French, I much want. 
Any other good dramatic authors in that language I want also ; but comic 
authors chiefly, though I should wish to have Racine, Corneille, and Vol- 
taire too. I am in no hurry for all or any of these, but if you accidentally 
meet with them very cheap, get them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, how. do you do, my dear 
friend? and how is Mrs. Hill? I trust, if now and then not so elegantly 
handsome, at least as amiable, and sings as divinely as ever. My good 
wife too has a charming " wood-note wild ; " now could we four . 

I am out of all patience with this vile world for one thing. Mankind 
are by nature benevolent creatures, except in a few scoundrelly instances 




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THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



I do not think tliat avarice of the good things we chance to have is born 
with us; but we are placed here amid so much nakedness, and hunger, 
and poverty, and want, that we are under a cursed necessity of studying 
selfishness, in order that we may exist ! Still there are, in every age, a 
few souls, that all the wants and woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, 
or e"en to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence. If ever I am in 
danger of vanity, it is when I contemplate myself on this side of my dispo- 
sition and character. God knows I am no saint ; I have a whole host of 
follies and sins to answer for ; but if I could, and I believe I do it as far as 
I can, I would wipe away all tears from all eyes. Adieu ! 

R. B. 



No. CCIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, \3th April, 1790. 

I HAVE just now, my ever honoured friend, enjoyed a very high 
luxury, in reading a paper of the " Lounger." You know my national 
prejudices. I have often read and admired the " Spectator," " Adventurer," 
" Rambler," and " World " ; but still with a certain regret, that they were 
so thoroughly and entirely English. Alas! have I often said to myself, 
what are all the boasted advantages which my country reaps from the 
union, that can counterbalance the annihilation of her independence, and 
even her very name ! I often repeat that couplet of my favourite poet 
Goldsmith — 



ve liberty possest, 



Tho' very poor, may yet be very Vies" 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common ternis, " Engli.sh ambassador, 
English court," &c. And I am out of all patience to see that equivocal 
character, Hastings, impeached by " the Commons of England." Tell 
me, my friend, is this weak prejudice? I believe in my conscience such 
ideas as "my country: her independence; her honour; the illustrious 
names that mark the history of my native land " ; &c. — I believe these, 
among your vicn of the world, men who in fact guide for the most part 
and govern our world, are looked on as so many modifications of 
wrongheadedness. They know the use of bawling out such terms, to 
rouse or lead the rabble ; but for their own private use. with almost all 
the able statesmen that ever existed, or now exist, when they talk of right 
and wrong, they only mean proper and improper ; and their measure of 
conduct is, not what they ought, but what they dare. For the truth of 
this I shall not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to one of the 
ablest judges of man that ever lived — the celebrated Earl of Chesterfield. 
In fact, a man who could thoroughly control his vices whenever they 
interfered with his interests, and who could completely put on the appear- 
ance of every virtue as often as it suited his purposes, is, on the Stanhopian 
plan, the perfect man ; a man to lead natioas. But are great abilities 



fe 



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THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



479 



complete without a flaw, and polished without a blemish, the standard of 
human excellence ? This is certainly the staunch opinion of men of the 
world ; but I call on honour, virtue, and worth, to give the Stygian doctrine 
a loud negative ! However, this must be allowed, that, if you abstract 
from man the idea of an existence beyond the grave, then the tme 
measure of human conduct is proper and improper: virtue and vice, 
as dispositions of the heart, are, in that case, of scarcely the same imporc 
and value to the world at large as harmony and discord in the modifi- 
cations of sound ; and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear for music, 
though it may sometimes give the possessor an ecstacy unknown to the 
coarser organs of the herd, yet, considering the harsh gratings and 
inharmonic jars in this ill-tuned state of being, it is odds but the indi- 
vidual world be as happy, and certainly would be as much respected by 
the true judges of society, as it would then stand, without either a good 
ear or a good heart. 

You must know I have just met with the " Mirror " and " Lounger" for the 
first time, and I am quite in raptures with them : I should be glad to have 
your opinion of some of the papers. The one I have just read, " Lounger," 
No. 6i, has cost me more honest tears than anything I have read a 
long time. Mackenzie has been called the Addison of the Scots, and, in 
my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the comparison. If he has not 
Addison's excjuisite humour, he as certainly outdoes him in the tender and 
the pathetic. His " Man of Feeling" (but I am not counsel learned in the 
laws of criticism) I estimate as the first performance in its kind I ever 
saw. From what book, moral or even pious, will the susceptible young 
mind receive impressions more congenial to humanity and kindness, gener- 
osity and benevolence — in short, more of all that ennobles the soul to 
herself, or endears her to others — than from the simple affecting tale of 
poor Harley? 

Still, with all my admiration of Mackenzie's writings, I do not know if 
they are the fittest reading for a young man who is about to set out, as the 
phrase is, to make his way into life. Do not you think. Madam, that 
among the few favoured of Heaven in the structure of their minds (for 
such there certainly are) there may be a purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an 
elegance of soul, which are of no use, nay, in some degree, absolutely 
disqualifying, for the truly important business of making a man's way into 

life? If I am not much mistaken, my gallant youn'g friend A 

is very much under these disqualifications : and fo'r the young females of 
a family I could mention, well may they excite parental solicitude : for I, a 
common acquaintance, or, as my vanity will have it, an humble friend, 
have often trembled for a turn of mind which may render them eminently 
happy — or peculiarly miserable ! 

I have been manufacturing some verses lately; but as I have got the 
most hurried season of Excise business over, I hope to have more leisure 
to transcribe anything that may show how much I have the honour to be, 
Madam, 

Yours, &c., 

R. B. 





«^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURN. 



TO COLLECTOR MITCHELL. 

[This letter refers to an Excise case, a farmer having reclaimed against a fine 
imposed by Collector Mitchell.] 

yjj^ Ellisland, 1790. 

I shall not fail to wait on Captain Riddel to-night — I wish and 
pray that the Goddess of Justice herself would appear to-morrow among 
our hon. gentlemen, merely to give them a word in their ear that mercy 
to the thief is injustice to the honest man. For my part, I have galloped 
over my ten parishes these four days, until this moment that I am just 
alighted, or, rather, that my poor jackass-skeleton of a horse has let me 
down, for the miserable devil has been on his knees half a score of times 
within the last twenty miles, telling me ifi his own way, " Behold, am not I 
thy faithful jade of a horse, on which thou hast ridden these many years ! " 
In short. Sir, I have broke my horse's wind, and almost broke my own 
neck, besides some injuries in a part that shall be nameless, owing to a 
hardhearted stone for a saddle. I find that every offender has so many 
great men to espouse his cause, that I shall not be surprised if I am not 
committed to the stronghold of the law to-morrow for insolence to the 
dear friends of the gentlemen of the country. 

I have the honour to be. Sir, 

Your obliged and obedient humble 
R. B. 



No. CCXI. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

gjjj Dumfries, Exctse-Office, 14^/2 July, 1790. 

Coming into town this morning to attend my duty in this office, 
it being collection-day, I met with a gentleman who tells me he is on his 
way to London ; so I take the opportunity of writing to you, as franking 
is at present under a temporary death. I shall have some snatches of 
leisure through the day, amid our horrid business and bustle, and I shall 
improve them as well as I can ; but let my letter be as stupid as ... , 
as miscellaneous as a newspaper, as short as a hungry grace-before- 
meat, or as long as a law-paper in the Douglas cause, as ill-spelt 
as countrv John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a scrawl as Betty Byre- 
Mucker's answer to it, I hope, considering the circumstances, you will forgive 
it ; and as it will put you to no expense of postage, I shall have the less 
reflection about it. 

I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my thanks for your most 
valuable present, " Zeluco." In fact, you are in some degree blameable for 
my neglect. You were pleased to 'express a wish for my opinion of thf 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 481 

work, which so flattered me, that nothing less would serve my over- 
weening fancy than a formal criticism on the book. In fact, I have 
gravely planned a comparative view of you, Fielding, Richardson, and 
Smollett, in your different qualities and merits as novel-writers. This, 
I own, betrays my ridiculous vanity, and I may probably never bring 
the business to bear; and I am fond of the spirit young Elihu shews 
in the book of Job — " And I said, I will also declare my opinion.'' I have 
quite disfigured my copy of the book with my annotations. I never take 
it up without at the same time taking my pencil, and marking with 
asterisms, parentheses, &c., wherever I meet with an original thought, a 
nervous remark on life and manners, a remarkable well-turned period, or 
a character sketched with uncommon precision. 

Though 1 should hardly- think of fairly writing out my "Comparative 
View," 1 shall certainly trouble you with my remarks, such as they are. 

I have just received from my gentleman that horrid summons in the 
book of Revelation — " That time shall be no more ! " 

The little collection of sonnets [by Mrs. Charlotte Smith] have some 
charming poetry in them. If indeed I am indebted to the fair author for 
the book, and not, as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of the other 
sex, I should certainly have written to the lady, with my grateful acknowl- 
edgments, and my own ideas of the comparative excellence of her pieces. 
I would do this last, not from any vanity of thinking that my remarks 
could be of much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely from my own 
feelings as an author, doing as I would be done by. — R. B. 



No. CCXII. 
TO MR. MURDOCH, 

TEACHER OF FRENCH, LONDON. 

My dear Sir, Elusland, jiiiy 16M, 1790. 

I received a letter from you a long time ago, but unfortunately, as 
It was in the time of my peregrinations and journeyings through Scotland, 
I mislaid or lost it, and, by consecjuence, your direction along with it. 
Luckily my good star brought me acquainted with lAIr. Kennedy, who I 
understand is an acquaintance of yours ; and by his means and mediation 
1 hope to replace that link which my unfortunate negligence had so 
unluckily broke in the chain of our correspondence. I was the more 
vexed at the vile accident, as my brother William, a journeyman saddler, 
has been for some time in London ; and wished above all things for 
your direction, that he might have paid his respects to his father's 
friend. 

His last address he sent me was, "Wm. Burns, at Mr. Barber's, saddler, 
No. 181, Strand." I writ him by Mr. Kennedy, but neglected to ask him 
for your address ; so, if you find a spare half-minute, please let my 
brother know by a card where and when he will find yoti, and the poor 





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THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



fellow will joyfully wait on you, as one of the few surviving friends of the 
man whose name, and Christian name too, he has the honour to bear. 

The next letter I write you shall be a long one ; I have much to tell you 
of "hair-breadth 'scapes in th' imminent deadly breach," with all the 
eventful history of a life,i the early years of which owed so much to youi 
kind tutorage; but this at an hour of leisure. My kindest compliments 
to Mrs. Murdoch and family. 

I am ever, my dear Sir, 

Your obliged Friend, 

R. B. 



No. CCXIII. 
TO MR. McMURDO. 

Sir, Ellisland, 2(/ ^w^^i-i", 1790. 

Now that you are over with the sirens of Flattery, the harpies of 
Corruption, and the furies of Ambition, these infernal deities that on all 
sides, and in all parties, preside over the villanous business of Politics, 
permit a rustic muse of your acquaintance to do her best to soothe you 
with a song.- 

You knew Henderson — I have not flattered his memory. 

I have the honour to be, Sir, 



Your obliged humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. CCXIV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Dear Madam, Wt August, -iygo. 

After a long day's toil, plague, and care, I sit down to write to you. 
Ask me not why I have delayed it so long. It was owing to hurry, indo- 
lence, and fifty other things ; in short, to anything — but forgetful nes.5 oi la 
plus aTiiiable de son sexe. By the by, you are indebted your best courtesy 
to me for this last compliment ; as I pay it from my sincere conviction ot 
its truth — a quality rather rare in compliments of these grinning, bowing, 
scraping times. 

Well, I hope writing to you will ease a little my troubled soul. Sorely 
has it been bruised to-day ! A ci-devant friend of mine, and an intimate 
acquaintance of yours, has given my feelings a wound that I perceive will 
gangrene dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded my pride ! — R. B. 

' This promised account of himself, as far as is known, was never written. 

- A poem on the death of Captain Matthew Henderson, with whom Burns was acquainted when 
w Edinburgh. Henderson died Nov. 21, 1788. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



483 



No. CCXV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 8M August, 1788. 

Forgive me, my once dear, and ever dear friend, my seeming negli- 
gence. You cannot sit down and fancy the busy life I lead. 

1 laid down my goose-feather to beat my brains for an apt siinile, and 
had some thoughts of a country grannum at a family christening ; a bride 
on the market-day before her marriage ; or a tavern-keeper at an election- 
dinner ; but the resemblance that hits my fancy best is that blackguard 
miscreant Satan, who roams about like a roaring lion, seeking, searchttig 
whom he may devour. However, tossed about as I am, if I choose (and 
who would not choose.'') to bind down with the crampets of Attention the 
brazen foundation of Integrity, I may rear up the superstructure of Inde- 
pendence, and from its daring turrets bid defiance to the storms of fate. 
And is not this a " consummation devoutly to be wished"? 

"Thy spir-t, Independence, let me share; 

Lord of the lion-heart and eagle-eye! 

Thy steps I follow with my bosom bare, 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the sky! " 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the introduction of Smollett's 
Ode to Independence: if you have not seen the poem, I will send it to 
you. How wretched is the man that hangs on by the favours of the 
great ! To shrink from every dignity of man at the approach of a lordly 
piece of self-consequence, who, amid all his tinsel glitter and stately 
hauteur, is but a creature formed as thou art — and perhaps not so well 
formed as thou art — came into the world a puling infantas thou didst, 
and must go out of it as all men must, a naked corse. — R. B. 



No. CCXVI. 
TO DR. ANDERSON. 



[Dr. James Anderson was editor of the 
asked Burns to become a contributor.] 

Sir, 



Bee," and through Dr. Blacklock had 



[1790.] 



I am much indebted to my worthy friend Dr. Blacklock for intro- 
ducing me to a gentleman of Dr. Anderson's celebrity ; but when you do 
me the honour to ask my assistance in your proposed publication, alas. 
Sir ! you might as well expect to cheapen a little honesty at the sign of 
an advocate's wig, or humility under the Geneva band. I am a miserable 
hurried devil, worn to the marrow in the friction of holding the noses of 
the poor publicans to the grindstone of the Excise ! and, like Milton's 
Satan, for private reasons, am forced 



" To do what yet tho' damn'd I would abhor;" 

— and accept a couplet or two of honest execration . . 



R. B. 





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^ 



T//£ LETTERS OE BURNS. 



No. CCXVII. 
TO CRAUFORD TAIT, ESQ. 

EDINBURGH. 

Dear Sir. Ellisland, 15M October, 1790. 

Allow me to introduce to your acquaintance the bearer, Mr. Wm. 
Duncan, a friend of mine, whom I have long known and long loved. His 
father, whose only son he is, has a decent little property in Ayrshire, and 
has bred the young man to the law, in which department he comes up an 
adventurer to your good town. I shall give you my friend's character in 
two words : as to his head, he has talents enough and more than enough, 
for common life ; as to his heart, when Nature had kneaded the kindl}- 
clay that composes it, she said, " I can no more." 

You, my good Sir, were born under kinder stars ; but your fraternal 
sympathy, I well know, can enter into the feelings of the young man 
who goes into life with the laudable ambition to do something, and to be 
something among his fellow-creatures, but whom the consciousness of 
friendless obscurity presses to the earth and wounds to the soul ! 

Even the fairest of his virtues are against him. That independent spirit 
and that ingenuous modesty — qualities inseparable from a noble mmd — are, 
with the million, circumstances not a little disqualifying. What pleasure 
is in the power of the fortunate and the happy, by their notice and patron- 
age, to brighten the countenance and glad the heart of such depressed 
youth ! 1 am not so angry with mankind for their deaf economy of the 
purse ; the goods of this world cannot be divided without being lessened : 
but why be a niggard of that which bestows bliss on a fellow-creature, yet 
takes nothing from 6ur own means of enjoyment? We wrap ourselves up 
in the cloak of our own better fortune, and turn away our eyes, lest the 
wants and woes of our brother-mortals should disturb the selfish apathy of 
our souls ! 

I am the worst hand in the world at asking a favour. That indirect 
address, that insinuating implication, which, without any positive request, 
plainly expresses your wish, is a talent not to be acquired at a plough-tail. 
Tell me then, for you can, in what periphrasis of language, in what cir- 
cumvolution of phrase, I shall envelop, yet not conceal, this plain story : 
" My dear Mr. Tait, my friend Mr. Duncan, whom I have the pleasure of 
introducing to you, is a young lad of your own profession, and a gentleman 
of much modesty and great worth. Perhaps it may be in your power to 
assist him in the, to him, important consideration of getting a place ; but, 
at all events, your notice and acquaintance will be a very great acquisition 
to him ; and I dare pledge myself that he will never disgrace your favour." 

You may possibly be surprised. Sir, at such a letter from me ; 'tis, I own, 
in the usual way of calculating these matters, more than our acquaintance 
entitles me to ; but my answer is short : Of all the men at your time of 
life whom 1 knew in Edinburgh, }ou are the most accessible on the side 
on which I have assailed you. You are very much altered indeed from 




# 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



what you were when I knew you, if generosity point the patli you will not 
tread, or humanity call to you in vain. 

As to myself, a being to whose interest I believe you are still a well- 
wisher, I an here, breathing at all times, chinking sometimes, and rhyming 
now and then. Every situation has its share of the cares and pains of 
life, and my situation 1 am persuaded has a full ordinary allowance of its 
pleasures and enjoyments. 

My best compliments to your father and Miss Tait. If you have an 
opportunity, please remember me in the solemn league and covenant of 
friendship to Mrs. Lewis Hay. I am a wretch for not writing her; but I 
am so hackneyed with self-accusation in that way, that my conscience 
lies in my bosom with scarce the sensibility of an oyster in its shell. 
Where is Lady McKenzie ? wherever she is, God bless her ! I likewise 
beg leave to \rouble you with compliments to Mr. Wm. Hamilton, Mrs. 
Hamilton and family, and Mrs. Chalmers, when you are in that country. 
Should you meet witri Miss Nimmo, please remember me kindly to her. 

R. B. 




No. CCXVIIL 
TO 



[This letter was perhaps addressed to Gavin Hamilton.] 

Dear Sir, Elmsland, 1790. 

Whether in the way of my trade I can be of any service to the 
Rev. Doctor is, I fear, very doubtful. Ajax's shield consisted, I think, of 
seven bull-hides and a plate of brass, which altogether set Hector's utmost 
force at defiance. Alas ! I am not a Hector, and the worthy Doctor's foes 
are as securely armed as Ajax was. Ignorance, superstition, bigotry, 
stupidity, malevolence, self-conceit, envy — all strongly bound in a massy 
frame of brazen impudence. Good God, Sir ! to such a shield, humour 
is the peck of a sparrow, and satire the pop-gun of a school-boy. Creation- 
dLsgracing scelerats such as they God only can mend, and the devil only 
can punish. In the comprehending way of Caligula, I wish they all had 
but one neck. I feel impotent as a child to the ardour of my wishes ! O 
for a withering curse to blast the germins of their wicked machinations. 
O for a poisonous tornado, winged from the torrid zone of Tartarus, to 
sweep the spreading crop of their villanous contrivances to the lowest 
hell! — R. B. 



No. CCXIX. 
TO MRS. DUXLOP. 

Elusland, November, 1790. 

" As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far country." 
Fate has long owed me a letter of good news from you, in return for the 
many tidings of sorrow which I have received. In this instance I most 



.m 



rti 



^ 



l86 the letters of burns. 



cordially obey the Apostle — " Rejoice with them that do rejoice.'' For me, 
to sing for joy, is no new thing ; but to preach for joy, as I have done in 
the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture to which 
1 never rose before. 

1 read your letter — I literally jumped for joy : how could such a mer- 
curial creature as a poet lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the best 
news from his best friend.' 1 seized my gilt-headed Wangee rod, an 
instrument indispensably necessary in my left hand, in the" moment of 
inspiration and rapture ; and stride, stride — quick and quicker — out skipt 
1 among the broomy banks of Nith to muse over my joy by retail. To 
keep within the bounds of prose was impossible. Mrs. Little's ' is a more 
elegant, but not more sincere, compliment to the sweet little fellow than I, 
extempore almost, poured out to him in the following verses : — 

" Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love, 

And ward o' mony a prayer, 
What heart o' stane wad thou na move, 

Sae helpless, sweet, an' fair? 
November hirples o'er the lea 

Chill on thy lovely form; 
But gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree 

Should shield thee frae the storm." 

1 am much flattered by your approbation of my " Tarn o' Shanter," which 
you express in your former letter; though, by the by, you load me in that 
said letter with accusations heavy and many ; to all which I plead, 7iot 
guilty I Your book is, 1 hear^ on the road to reach me. As to printing of 
poetry, when you prepare it for the press, you have only to spell it right, 
and place the capital letters properly : as to the punctuation, the printers 
do that themselves. — R. B. 



No CCXX. 
TO MR. PETER HILL. 

Ellisland, \-]th Jatiuary, 1791. 

Take these two guineas, and place them over against that d-mned 
account of yours, which has gagged my mouth these five or six months! 
I C3n as little write good things as apologies to the man I owe money to. 
O the supreme cur.se of making three guineas do the business of five ! 
Not all the labours of Hercules, not all the Hebrews' three centuries of 
Egyptian bondage, were such an insuperable business, such an infernal 
task ! Poverty ! thou half-sister of death, thou cousin-german of hell ! 
where shall 1 find force of execration equal to the amplitude of thy 
demerits? Oppressed by thee, the venerable ancient, grown hoary in the 
practice of every virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, implores a 
little, little aid to support his existence from a stony-hearted son of 
Mammon, whose sun of prosperity never knew a cloud; and is by him 
denied and insulted. Oppressed by thee, the man of sentiment, whose 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



heart glows with independence and melts with sensibility, inly pines under 
the neglect, or writhes in bitterness of soul under the contumely, of arro- 
gant, unfeeling wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of genius, whose ill- 
starred ambition plants him at the tables of the fashionable and polite, 
must see in suffering silence his remark neglected and his person despised, 
while shallow greatness, in his idiot attempts at wit, shall meet with 
countenance and applause. Nor is it only the family of worth that have 
reason to complain of thee : the children of folly and vice, though in 
common with thee the offspring of evil, smart equally under thy rod. 
Owing to thee, the man of unfortunate disposition and neglected education 
is condemned as a fool for his dissipation ; despised and shunned as a 
needy wretch, when his follies, as usual, bring him to want; and when his 
unprincipled necessities drive him to dishonest practices, he is abhorred 
as a miscreant, and perishes by the justice of his country. But far other- 
wise is the lot of the man of family and fortune. His early follies and 
extravagance are spirit and fire ; his consequent wants are the embarrass- 
ments of an honest fellow ; and when, to remedy the matter, he has gained 
a legal commission to plunder distant provinces, or massacre peaceful 
nations, he returns, perhaps, laden with the spoils of rapine and murder, 
lives wicked and respected, and dies a scoundrel and a lord. Nay, worst 
of all, alas ! for helpless woman. The needy prostitute, who has shivered 
at the corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages of casual prostitution, 
is left neglected and insulted, ridden down by the chariot-wheels of the 
coroneted Rip, hurrying on to the guilty assignation ; she who, without 
the same necessities to plead, riots nightly in the same guilty trade. 

Well ! divines may say of it what they please, but execration is to 
the mind what phlebotomy is to the body : the vital sluices of both are 
wonderfully relieved by their respective evacuations. — R. B. 

No. CCXXI. 
TO A. F. TVTLER, ESQ.i 

Sir, Ellisland, February [A/ri//"], 1791. 

Nothing less than the unfortunate accident I have met with could 
have prevented my grateful acknowledgments for your letter. His own 
favourite poem, and that an essay in the walk of the Muses entirely new to 
him, where consequently his hopes and fears were on the most anxious 
alarm for his success in the attempt, — to have that poem so much ap- 
plauded by one of the first judges, was the most delicious vibration that 
ever thrilled along the heart-strings of a poor poet. However, Providence, 
to keep up the proper proportion of evil with the good, which it seems is 
necessary in this sublunary state, thought proper to check my exultation 
by a very serious misfortune. A day or two after 1 received your letter 
my horse came down with me and broke my right arm. As this is the first 
service my arm has done me since its disaster, I find myself unable to do 
more than just in general terms thank you for this additional instance of 

' Lord Woodhouslee. 




7=]- 




w 



- 48<S THE LI<:TTERS OF BURNS. 



your patronage and friendship. As to tlie faults you detected in the piece 
they are truly there : one of them, the liit at the lawyer and priest, 1 shal 
cut out ; as to the falling off in the catastrophe, for the reason you justly 
adduce, it cannot easily i)e remedied. Your approbation. Sir, has given me 
sucii additional spirits to persevere in this species of poetic composition, 
that 1 am already revolving two or three stories in my fancy. If I can 
bring tliesc lloating ideas lo l)car any kind of riiibodiud form, it will give 
an additional oppoitniiity of assuring ycu how nuich 1 iiave the iioiiour 





to be, cK:c. — R. 15. 



No. CCXXII. 
TO MR.S. DLINl.OP. 

Ki.i.isi.ANi), -jth lu-b. \A/>ril?], 1791. 

When I tell you. Madam, that by a fall, not from my horse, but with 
my horse,' I have been a cripple some time, and that this is the first day 
my arm and hand have been able to serve me in writing, you will allow 
that it is too good an apology for my seemingly ungrateful silence. I am 
now getting better, and am able to rhyme a little, which implies some 
tolerable ease; as I cannot think that the most poetic genius is able to 
compose on the rack. 

1 do not remember if ever 1 mentioned to you my having an idea of 
composing an elegy on the late Miss ISurnet of Moni)oddo. 1 had the 
honour ol being pretty well acquainted with her, and have seldom felt so 
much at the loss of an acquaintance, as when 1 heard tliat so amiable 
and accomplished a piece of God's work was no nioie. I have as yet 
gone no farther than the following fragment, of wliieli please let me have 
your oijinion. You know that elegy is a subject so nuicli exhausted, that 
any new idea on the business is not to be expected; His well if we can 
place an old idea in a new light. Mow far 1 have succeeded as to this last 
\()u will judge iVom what follows. 

[ llcic comes tlio fllcj^y.] 

1 have proceeded no further. 

\'our kind letter, with \our kind rciiieiiibrancc of }our godson, came 
safe. This last. Madam, is scarcely Avhat my pride can bear. As to the 
little fellow, he is, partiality apart, the finest boy 1 have of a long time 
seen. He is now seventeen months old, has the small-pox and lueasles 
over, has cut several teeth, and nevi'r had a gr.iin of doctor's drugs in his 

1 am truly happy to hear that the "little iioweret "" is blooming so fresh 
and fair, and that the "mother plant" is rather recovering her drooping 
head. Soon and well may her " cruel wounds " be healed ! 1 have written 
thus for with a good deal of difficulty. When I get a little abler \ou shall 
hear further from, 

Madam, \()urs, 

R. li. 

1 lie hnd a bad fall and broke his right arm. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 4^9 

No. CCXXIII. 
TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 

[The Rev. Arch. AHson, a clergyman of the English Church, is liest known as 
the author of " An Essay on Taste," and as the father of the late Sir Archibald 
Alison, the historian of Europe. Dugald Stewart has referred to this letter as 
]iroof that Burns, imperfectly educated as he was, had formed " a distinct concep- 
lion of the general principles of the doctrine of association."] 

yjl^ Ellisland, near Dumfries, \^th Feb., 1791. 

You must by this time have set me down as one of the most 
ungrateful of men. You did me the honour to present me with a book 
which does honour to science and the intellectual powers of man, and I 
have not even so much as acknowledged the receipt of it. The fact is, 
you yourself are to blame for it. Mattered as I was by your telling me 
that you wished to have m\- opinion of the work, the old spiritual enemy of 
mankind, who knows well that vanity is one of the sins that most easily 
l)eset me, put it into my head to ponder over the performance with the 
look-out of a critic, and to draw up, forsooth ! a deep learned digest of 
strictures on a composition of which, in fact, until I read the book, I did 
not even know the first principles. I own. Sir, that at first glance .several 
of your pro])ositions startled me as paradoxical. That the martial clangor 
of a trumpet had something in it vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime, 
than the twingie-twangle of a jews-harp ; that the delicate flexure of a 
rose-twig, when the half-blown flower is heavy with the tears of the dawn, 
was infinitely more beautiful and elegant than the upright stub of a 
burdock, and that from something innate and independent of all associ- 
ations of ideas; — these I had set down as irrefragable, orthodox truths, 
until peiiising your book shook my faith. In short. Sir, except Euclid's 
'• Elements of Geometry," which I made a shift to unravel by my father's 
fireside, in the winter evenings of the first .season 1 held the plough, I 
never read a book which gave me such a quantum of information, and 
added so much to my stock of ideas, as your " Essays on the Principles 
of Taste." One thing, Sir, you must forgive my mentioning as an 
uncommon merit in the work — I mean the language. To clothe abstract 
philosophy in elegance of style sounds something like a contradiction in 
terms ; but you have convinced me that they are quite compatible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late composition. The one 
in print is my first essay in the way of telling a tale. 

I am. Sir, &c., 

R. B. 

No. CCXXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 

Eli.island, 28M January, 1791. 

I DO not know, Sir, whether you are a subscriber to Grose's " Antiquities 
of Scotland." If you are, the enclosed poem will not be altogether new to 

you. Captain Grose did me the favour to send me a dozen copies of the 



PF^- 




^ 



^ 



490 



THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



oroof sheet, of which this is one. Should you have read the piece before, 
still this will answer the principal end I have in view : it will give me 
another opportunity of thanking you for all your goodness to the rustic 
bard ; and also of showing you, that the abilities you have been pleased 
to commend and patronize are still employed in the way you wish. 

The " Elegy on Captain Henderson " is a tribute to the memory of a man 
I loved much. Poets have in this the same advantage as Roman Catholics ; 
they can be of service to their friends after they have passed that bourne 
where all other kindness ceases to be of avail. Whether, after all, either 
the one or the other be of any real service to the dead is, I fear, very prob- 
lematical ; but I am sure they are highly gratifying to the living: and as 
a very orthodox text, 1 forget where, in Scripture says, "Whatsoever is 
not of faith is sin," so say I, Whatsoever is not detrimental to society, and 
is of positive enjoyment, is of God, the Giver of all good things, and ought 
to be received and enjoyed by His creatures with thankful delight. As 
almost all my religious tenets originate from my heart, I am wonderfully 
pleased with the idea, that 1 can still keep up a tender intercourse with 
the dearly beloved friend, or still more dearly beloved mistress, who is 
gone to the world of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I was busy with Percy's 
" Reliques of English Poetry." By the way, how much is every honest 
heart, which has a tincture of Caledonian prejudice, obliged to you for your 
glorious story of Buchanan and Targe ! 'Twas an unequivocal proof of 
your loyal gallantry of soul, giving Targe the victory. I should have been 
mortified to the ground if you had not.' 

I have just read over, once more of many times, your " Zeluco." I 
marked with my pencil, as I went along, every passage that pleased me 
particularly above the rest ; and one or two, I think, which, with humble 
deference, I am disposed to think unequal to the merits of the book. I 
have sometimes thought to transcribe these marked passages, or at least 
so much of them as to point where they are, and send them to you. 
Original strokes that strongly depict the human heart is your and Field- 
ing's province, beyond any other novelist I have ever perused. Richard- 
son, indeed, might perhaps be excepted ; but, unhappily, his drai/iatis 
persouce are beings of another world ; and however they may captivate 
the unexperienced, romantic fancv of a I)oy or a girl, they will ever, in 
proportion as we have made human nature our study, dissatisfy our 
riper years. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on, a mighty tax-gatherer before 
the Lord, and ha\'e lately had the interest to get myself ranked on the 
list of Excise as a supervisor, I am not yet employed as such, but in a few 
years I shall fall into the file of supervisorship by seniority. I have had 
an immense loss in the death of the Earl of Glencairn, the patron from 
whom all my fame and fortune took its rise. Independent of my grateful 
attachment to liim, which was indeed so strong that it pervaded my very 
soul, and was entwined with the thread of my existence, so soon as the 

' Targe, representiiii; tlie Cavalier Highland spirit, overcomes Buchanan, representing the 
colder Lowland feeling in a quarrel about Queen Mary. 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 491 

Prince's friends had got in (and every dog, you know, has his day), my get- 
ting forward in the Excise would have been an easier business than other- 
wis'e it will be. Though this was a consummation devoutly to be wished, 
yet, thank Heaven. I can live and rhyme as I am; and as to my boys, 
poor little fellows ! if I cannot place them on as high an elevation in life 
as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured so much of the Disposer of 
events as to see that period, lix them on as broad and independent a 
basis as possible. Among the many wise adages which have been 
treasured up by our Scottish ancestors, this is one of the best. Better be the 
head 0'' the commonalty than the tail o^ tlie gentry. 

But I am got on a subject which, however interesting to me, is of no 
manner of consequence to you ; so I shall give you a short poem on the 
other page, and close this with assuring you how sincerely I have the 
honour to be, 

Yours, &c., 

R. B. 

Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I presented to a very 
young lady, whom I had formerly characterized under ihe denomination 
of The Rose-bud. 



No. CCXXV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, \ith March 1791. 

If the foregoing piece ^ be worth your strictures, let me have them. For 
my own part, a thing that 1 have just composed always appears through 
a double portion of that partial medium in which an author will ever view 
his own works. I believe, in general, novelty has something in it that 
inebriates the fancy, and not unfrequently dissipates and fumes away like 
other intoxication, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, with an aching 
heart. A striking instance of this might be adduced in the revolution of 
many a hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into stupid prose, and so 
sacrilegiously intrude on the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up the 
page in my own way, and give you another song of my late composition, 
which will appear perhaps in Johnson's work, as well as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, " There'll never be peace till 
Jamie comes hame." When political combustion ceases to be the object 
of princes and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the lawful prey of 
historians and poets. 

" By yon castle wa' at the close of the day 
I heard a man sing, tho' his head it was gray: 
And as he was singing, the tears fast down came — 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame." 

If you like the air, and if the stanzas hit your fancy, you cannot imagine, 
m\- dear friend, how much you would oblige me, if, by the charms of your 

' By this Burns means the annexed verses, " By yon castle 



^ 





492 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

delightful voice, you would give me honest effusion to " the memory ofjoys 
that are passed" to the few friends whom you inoulge in that pleasure. 
But I have scribbled on till I hear the clock has intimated the near 
approach of 

" That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stane." 

So good-night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and delectable your dreams ' 
Apropos, how do you li'Ke this thought in a ballad I have just now on the 
tapis f — 

" I look to the west when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may be : 
Far, far in the west is he I lo'e best, 

The lad that is dear to my babie and me." 

Good-night, once more, and God bless you! — R. B. 



No. CCXXVI. 
TO MR. ALEXANDER DALZEL, 

FACTOR, FINDI.AYSTON. 

[The poem was on the recent death of Lord Glencairn, for whom Mr. Dalzei 
had acted as factor.] 

My dear Sir, Ellislano, T^^tk March, 1791. 

I have taken the liberty to frank this letter to you, as it encloses an 
idle poem of mine, which I send you ; and, God knows, you may perhaps 
pay dear enough for it if you read it through. Not that this is my own 
opinion ; but the author, by the time he has composed and corrected 
his work, has quite pored away all his powers of critical discrimina- 
tion. 

I can easily guess from my own heart what you have felt on a late most 
melancholy event. God knows what I have suffered at the loss of my 
best friencl, my first and dearest patron and benefactor ; the man to whom 
I owe all that I am and have ! I am gone into mourning for him, and with 
more sincerity of grief than I fear some will, who by nature's ties ought tc 
feel on the occasion. 

I will be exceedingly obliged to you indeed, to let me know the news of 
the noble family — how the poor mother and the two sisters support their 
loss. I had a packet of poetic bagatelles ready to send to Lady Betty, 
when I saw the fatal tidings in the newspaper. I see by the same channel 
that the honoured remains of my noble patron are designed to be 
brought to the family burial-place. Dare I trouble you to let me know 
privately before the day of interment, that I may cross the country, and 
steal among the crowd, to pay a tear to tlie last sight of my ever-revered 
benefactor? It will oblige me bevond expression. — R. B. 






THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 



493 



No. CCXXVII. 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, 

OF FINTRY. 

[To Mrs. Graham the Poet afterwards presented the new edition of his poems, 
with these characteristic words written on one of the blank leaves : " It is prob- 
able, Madam, that this page may be read, when the hand that now writes it shall 
be mouldering in the dust. May it then bear witness, that I present you these 
volumes as a tribute of gratitude, on my part ardent and sincere, as your and Mr. 
Graham's goodness to me has been generous and noble ! May every child of 
yours, in the hour of need, find such a friend as I shall teach every child of mine 
that their father found in you. — Robert Burns."] 

Madam, Ellisland, 1791. 

Whether it is that the story of our Mary Queen of Scots has a 
peculiar effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether T have in the enclosed 
ballad succeeded beyond my usual poetic success, I know not ; but it has 
pleased me beyond any effort of my muse for a good while past : on that 
account I enclose it particularly to you. It is true, the purity of my 
motives'may be suspected. I am already deeply indebted to Mr. Graham's 
goodness ; and what, in the Jisual ways of men, is of infinitely greater im- 
portance, Mr. G. can do me service of the utmost importance in time to 
come. I was born a poor dog ; and however I may occasionally pick a 
better bone than I used to do, I know I must live and die poor : but I will 
indulge the flattering faith that my poetry will considerably outlive my 
poverty ; and without any fustian affectation of spirit, I can promise and 
afifirm, that it must be no ordinary craving of the latter shall ever make 
me do anything injurious to the honest fame of the former. Whatever 
may be my failings, for failings are a part of human nature, may they ever 
be those of a generous heart and an independent mind ! It is no fault of 
mine that I was born to dependence ; nor is it Mr. Graham's chiefest praise 
that he can command influence : but it is his merit to bestow, not only 
with the kindness of a brother, but with the politeness of a gentleman ; 
and I trust it shall be mine, to receive wi-h thankfulness and^ remember 
with undiminished gratitude. — R. B. 



No. CCXXVIII. 

TO THE REV. G. BAIRD. 

[This is an answer to an application to revise the poems of Michael Bruce, and 
to add some verses of his own to an edition which was about to be published for 
the benefit of Bruce's mother, then 80 years of age, poor and helpless.] 

Reverend Sir, Ellisland, 1791. 

Why did you, my dear Sir, write to me in such a hesitating style on 
the business of poor Bruce? Don't I know, and have I not-felt, the many 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



ills, the peculiar ills, that poetic flesh is heir to? You shall have your 
choice of all the unpublished poems I have; and had your letter had my 
direction, so as to have reached me sooner (it only came to my hand this 
moment), I should have directly put you out of suspense on the subject. 1 
only ask, that some prefatory advertisement in the book, as well as the 
subscription bills, may bear, that the publication is solely for the benefit 
of Bruce's mother. I would not put it in the power of ignorance to 
surmise, or malice to insinuate, that I clubbed a share in the work from 
mercenary motives. Nor need you give me credit for any remarkable 
generosity in my part of the business. I have such a host of peccadilloes, 
failings, follies, and backslidings (anybody but myself might perhaps give 
some of them a worse appellation), that by way of some balance, however 
trifling, in the account, I am fain to do any good that occurs in my very 
limited power to a fellow-creature, just for the selfish purpose of clearing a 
little the vista of retrospection. — R. B. 



E 



No. CCXXIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

F.i.LiSLAND, wth April, 1791. 

I AM once more able, my honoured friend, to return you, with my own 
hand, thanks for the many instances of your friendship, and particularly 
for your kind anxiety in this last disaster that my evil genius had in store 
for me. However, life is chequered — joy and sorrow — for on Saturday 
morning last Mrs. Burns made me a present of a fine boy; rather stouter 
but not so handsome as your godson was at his time of life. Indeed I 
look on your little namesake to be my chef cVceuvre in that species of 
manufacture, as I look on *' Tarn o' Shanter " to be my standard performance 
in the poetical line. 'Tis true, both the one and the other discover a 
spice of roguish waggery that might perhaps be as well spared ; but then 
they also show, in my opinion, a force of genius and a finishing polish 
that I despair of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout again, and 
laid as lustily about her to-day at breakfast as a reaper from the corn-ridge. 
That is the peculiar privilege and blessing of our hale, sprightly damsels, 
that are bred among the hay and heather. We cannot hope for that 
highly polished mind, that charming delicacy of soul, which is found 
among the female world in the more elevated stations of life, and which is 
certainly by far the most bewitching charm in the famous cestus of Venus. 
It is indeed such an inestimable treasure, that, where it can be had in its 
native heavenly purity, unstained by some one or other of the many shades 
of affectation, and unalloyed by some one or other of the many species 
of caprice, I declare to Heaven I should think it cheaply purchased at 
the expense of every other earthly good ! But as this angelic creature is, 
I am afraid, extremely rare in any station and rank of life, and totally 
denied to such an humble one as mine, we meaner mortals must put up 
with the next rank of female excellence. As fine a figure and face: we can 
produce as any rank of life whatever ; rustic, native grace ; unaffected 



S 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 495 



modesty and unsullied purity ; nature's mother-wit and the rudiments of 
taste ; a simplicity of soul, unsuspicious of, because unacquainted with, 
the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, disingenuous world; and, the 
dearest charm of all the rest, a yielding sweetness of disposition and a 
generous warmth of heart, grateful for love on our part and ardently 
glowing with a more than ecjual return ; these, with a Jiealthy frame, a 
sound, vigorous constitution, which your higher ranks can scarcely ever 
hope to enjoy, are the charms of lovely woman in my humble walk 
of life. 

This is the greatest effort my broken arm has yet made. Do let me 
hear, by first post, how cher petit Monsieur comes on with his small-pox. 
May Almighty Goodness preserve and restore him ! — R. B. 



No. CCXXX. 

TO 

Dear Sir, Ellibland, 1790. 

1 am exceedingly to blame in not writing you long ago; but the 
truth is, that I am the most indolent of all human beings ; and when ! 
matriculate in the herald's otifice, I intend that my supporters shall be two 
sloths, my crest a slow-worm, and the motto, " Deil tak' the foremost." 
So much by way of apology for not thanking you sooner for your kind 
execution of mv commission. — R. B. 



No. CCXXXI. 

TO 

[This tremendous scolding is supposed to have been sent to a snarling critic 
who had complained of the false grammar and uncouthness of Burns's poems.] 

Ellislanu, 1791. 
Thou eunuch of language : thou Englishman, who never was south the 
Tweed: thou 'servile echo of fashionable barbarisms: thou quack, vend- 
ing the nostrums of empirical elocution : thou marriage-maker between 
vowels and consonants, on the Gretna-green of caprice : thou cobbler, 
botching the flimsy socks of boml^ast oratory: thou blacksmith, hammer- 
ing the rivets of absurdity : thou butcher, embruing thy hands in the 
bowels of orthography : thou arch-heretic in pronunciation : thou pitch- 
pipe of affected emphasis : thou carpenter, mortising the awkward joints 
of jarring sentences : thou squeaking dissonance of cadence : thou pimp of 
gender : thou Lyon Herald to silly etymology : thou antipode of gram- 
mar : thou executioner of construction : thou brood of the speech-dis- 
tracting builders of the Tower of Babel ; thou lingual confusion worse 
confounded : thou scape-gallows from the land of syntax : thou scavenger 
of mode and tense : thou murderous accoucheur of infant learning : thou 
ignis fatuus, misleading the steps of benighted ignorance : thou pickle- 



S 



496 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

herring in the puppet-show of nonsense : thou faithful recorder of bar- 
barous iciiom : thou persecutor of syllabication : thou baleful meteor, 
foretelling and facilitating the rapid approach of Nox and Erebus. — R. B. 



No. CCXXXII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM, 

wth June, 1791. 

Let me interest you, my dear Cunningham, in behalf of the gentleman 
who waits on you with this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, ^jrincipal 
schoolmaster there, and is at present suffering severely under the perse- 
cution of one or two powerful individuals of his employers. He is ac- 
cused of harshness to boys that were placed under his care. God help 
the teacher, if a man of sensibility and genius, and such is my friend 
Clarke, when a booby father presents him with his booby son, and insists 
on lighting up the rays of science in a fellow's head whose skull is imper- 
vious and inaccessible by any other way than a positive fracture with a 
cudgel, a fellow whom, in fact, it savours of impiety to attempt making 
a scholar of, as he has been marked a blockhead in the book of fate, at 
the almighty fiat of his Creator. 

The patrons of Moffat School are the ministers, magistrates, and town- 
council of Edinburgh ; and as the business comes now before them, let me 
beg my clearest friend to do everything in his power to serve the interests 
of a man of genius and worth, and a man whom I particularly respect 
and esteem. You know some good fellows among the magistracy and 
council, but particularly you have much to say with a reverend gentleman, 
to whom you have the honour of being very nearly related, and whom this 
country and age have had the honour to produce. I need not name the 
historian of Charles V. I tell him, through the medium of his nephew's 
influence, that Mr. Clarke is a gentleman who will not disgrace even his 
patronage. I know the merits of the cause thoroughly, and say it, that 
my friend is falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance. 

God help the children of dependence ! Hated and persecuted by 
their enemies, and too often, alas ! almost unexceptionab^-, received by 
their friends with disrespect and reproach, under the thin disguise of cold 
civility and humiliating advice. Oh, to be a sturdy savage, stalking in 
the pride of his independence amid the solitary wilds of his deserts, 
rather than, in civilized life, helplessly to tremble for a subsistence, pre- 
carious as the caprice of a fellow-creature ! Everyman has his virtues, and 
no man is without his failings ; and curse on that privileged plain-dealing 
of friendship which in the hour of my calamity cannot reach forth the 
helping hand, without at the same time pointing out those failings, and 
apportioning them their share in procuring my present distress. My 
friends, for^uch the world calls ye, and such ye think yourselves to be, 
pass by my virtues if you please, but do, also, spare my follies : the first 
will witness in my breast for themselves, and the last will give pain enough 
to the ingenuous mind without you. And since deviating more or less 





THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 497 

from the paths of propriety and rectitude must be incident to human 
nature, do thou, Fortune, put it in my power, always from myself, and of 
myself, to bear the consequences of those errors! I do not want to be 
independent that I may sin, but I want to be independent in my sinning. 

To return in this rambling letter to the subject I set out with, let me 
recommend my friend, Mr. Clarke, to your acquaintance and good offices ; 
his worth entitles him to the one, and his gratitude will merit the othei . 
I long much to hear from you. Adieu ! — R. B. 

No. CCXXXIII. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN. 

[Lord Buchaii had projected a fete in honour of the poet Thomson, including 
the opening of a temple to his memory on Ednam Hill.] 

My Lord, Ellisland, 1791. 

Language sinks under the ardour of my feelings when I would 
thank your lordship for the honour you have done me in inviting me to 
make one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson. In my first enthu- 
siasm in reading the card you did me the honour to write me, I over- 
looked every obstacle, and determined to go ; but I fear it will not be in 
ny power. A week or two's absence, in the very middle of my harvest, is 
what I much doubt I dare not venture on. I once already made a pil- 
grimage icp the whole course of the Tweed, and fondly would I take the 
same delightful journey doivn the windings of that delightful stream. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion : but who would write 
after Collins? I read over his verses to the memory of Thomson, and 
despaired. I got indeed to the length of three or four stanzas, in the way 
of address to the shade of the bard, on crowning his bust. I shall trouble 
your lordship with the subjoined copy of them, which, I am afraid, will be 
but too convincing a proof how unequal I am to the task. However, it 
affords me an opportunity of approaching your lordship, and declaring 
how sincerely and gratefully I have the honour to be, &c. — R. B. 

[Here follows the poem, for which see page 97.] 

No. CCXXXIV.' 

TO MR. THOMAS SLOAN. 

My dear Sloan, Ellisland, Sept. i, 1791. 

Suspense is worse than disappointment; for that reason I hurry 
to tell you that I just now learn that Mr. Ballantine does not choose to 
interfere more in the business. I am truly sorry for it, but cannot help it. 

You blame me for not writing you sooner, but you will jDlease to 
recollect that you omitted one Tittle necessary piece of information - - 
your address. 

However, you know equally well m\' hurried life, indolent temper, 
and s':rengt!i of attachment. It must be a longer period than the longest 





L 498 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



life " in the world's hale and undegenerate days," that will make me 
forget so dear a friend as Mr. Sloan. 1 am prodigal enough at times, but 
I will not part with such a treasure as that. 

I can easily enter into the emba7-ras of }our present situation. You 
know my favourite quotation from Young — 



" On Reason build Resolve, 

That column of true majesty in man." 

And that other favourite one from Thomson's Alfred ■ 

" What proves the hero truly great 
Is, never, never, to despair." 

Or, shall I quote you an author of your acquaintance; 



" Whether doing, suffering, or forbearing. 

You may do miracles by — persevering." 

I have nothing new to tell you. The few friends we have are going 
on in the old way. I sold my crop on this day, se'ennight, and sold it 
very well : a guinea an acre, on an average, above value. But such a 
scene of drunkenness was hardly ever seen in this country. After the 
roup was over, about thirty people engaged in battle, every man for his 
own hand, and fought it out for three hours. Nor was the scene much 
better in the house. No fighting, indeed, but folks lying drunk on the 
floor, and decanting, until both my dogs got so drunk by attending them, 
that they could not stand. You will easily guess how I enjoyed the 
scene ; as I was no farther over than you used to see me. 

Mrs. B. and family have been in Ayrshire these many weeks. 

Farewell ! and God bless you, my dear friend ! — R. B. 



No. CCXXXV. 



TO LADY E. CUNNINGHAM. 

My Lady, 

I would, as usual, have availed myself of the privilege your good- 
ness has allowed me, of sending you anything I compose in my poetical 
way ; but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock of my irreparable loss 
would allow me, to pay a tribute to my late benefactor, I determined to make 
that the first piece I should do myself the honour of sending you. Had 
the wing of my fancy been equal to the ardour of my heart, the enclosed 
had been much more worthy your perusal : as it is, I beg leave to lay it 
at your ladyship's feet. As all the world knows my obligations to the 
late Earl of Glencairn, I would wish to show as openly that my heart 
glows, and shall ever glow, with the most grateful sense and remem- 
brance of his lordship's goodness. The sables I did myself the honour 
to wear to his lordship's memory were not the "mockery of woe." Nor 
shall my gratitude perish with me ! If, among my children, I shall have 
a son that has a heart, he shall hand it down to his child as a family 





THE LETTERS OEBL'TA'S. 499 

honour, and a family debt, that my dearest existence I owe to the noble 
house of Glencairn ! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you think the poem may venture to 
see the light, I would, in some way or other, give it to the world. — R. B. 



No. CCXXXVI. 

TO MR. AINSLIE. 

My dear AiNSLIE, Ellisland, -791. 

Can you minister to a mind diseased? Can you, amid the horrors 
of penitence, regret, remorse, headache, nausea, and all the rest of the 

d d hounds of hell that beset a poor wretch who has been guilty of the 

sin of drunkenness — can you speak peace to a troubled soul? 

Miserable perdu that 1 am, I have tried everything that used to amuse 
me, but in vain : here must I sit, a monument of the vengeance laid up in 
store for the wicked, slowly counting every chick of the clock as it slowly, 
slowly, numbers over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d — n them ! are 
ranked up before me, every one at his neighbour's backside, and every 
one with a burthen of anguish on his back, to pour on my devoted head — 
and there is none to pity me. My wife scolds me, my business torments 
me, and my sins come staring me in the face, every one telling a more 
bitter tale than his fellow. When I tell you even . . . has lost its 
power to please, you will guess something of my hell within, and all 
around me. I began " Elibanks and Elibraes," but the stanzas fell un- 
enjoyed and unfinished from my listless tongue : at last I luckily thought 
of reading over an old letter of yours, that lay by me, in my bookcase, 
and I felt something, for the first time sinc2 I opened my eyes, of pleasur- 
able existence. Well — I begin to breathe a little, since I began to write 

to you. How are you, and what are \ou doing? How goes law? 
Apropos, for connexion's sake do not address to me supervisor, for that is 
an honour I cannot pretend to : 1 am on the list, as we call it, for a 
supervisor, and will be called out by and by to act as one : but at 
present I am a simple ganger, tho' t'other day I got an appointment to 
an Excise division of 25/. per annum better than the rest. My present 
income, down money, is 70/. per annum. 

1 have one or two good fellows here whom you would be glad to know. 

R. B. 



No. CCXXXVII. 

TO MISS DAVIES. 

It is impossible. Madam, that the generous warmth and angelic purity 
of your youthful mind can have any idea of that moral disease under 
which I unhappily must rank as the chief of sinners : I mean a torpitude 
of the moral powers, that mav be called a letharg}- of conscience. In 





500 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



vain Remorse rears h^r horrent crest, and rouses all her fjiakes : beneath 
the deadly-fixed eye and leaden hand of Indolence their wildest ire is 
charmed into the torper of the bat, slumbering out the rigours of winter 
in the chink of a ruined wall. Nothing less. Madam, could have made 
me so long neglect your obliging commands. Indeed, I had one apology 
— the bagatelle was not worth presenting. Besides, so strongly am I 
interested in Miss Davies's fate and welfare in the serious business of life, 
amid its chances and changes, that to make her the subject of a silly 
ballad is downright mockery of these ardent feelings ; 'tis like m imperti- 
nent jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious heaven ! why this disparity between our wishes and our 
powers? Why is the most generous wish to make others blest impotent 
and ineffectual, as the idle breeze that crosses the pathless desert? In 
my walks of life I have met with a few people to whom how gladly would 
I have said : " Go, be happy! 1 know that your hearts have been wounded 
b}' the scorn of the proud, whom accident has placed above you — or, 
worse still, in whose hands are, perhaps, placed many of the comforts of 
jour life. But there ! ascend that rock. Independence, and look justly 
down on their littleness of soul. Make the worthless tremble under your 
indignation, and the foolish sink before your contempt ; and largely impart 
that happiness to others, which I am certain will give yourselves so much 
pleasure to bestow." 

Why, dear Madam, must I wake from this delightful reverie, and find it 
all a dream? Why, amid my generous enthusiasm, must I find myself 
poor and powerless, incapable of wiping one tear from the eye of pity, or 
of adding one comfort to the friend I love? Out upon the world, say I, 
that its affairs are administered so ill ! They talk of reform : good Heaven ! 
what a reform would I make among the sons, and even the daughters, of 
men ! Down, immediately, should go fools from the high places where 
misbegotten chance has perked them up, and through life should they 
skulk, ever haunted by their native insignificance, as the body marches 
accompanied by its shadow. As for a much more formidable class, the 
knaves, I am at" a loss what to do with them : had I a world, there should 
not be a knave in it. 

But the hand that could give, I would liberally fill : and I would 
pour delight on the n^art that could kindly forgive and generously 
love. 

Still, the inequalities of life are among men comparatively tolerable; 
but there is a delicacy, a tenderness, accom.panying every view in whicli 
we can place 'ovely woman, that are grated and shocked at the rude, 
capricious distinctions of Fortune. Woman is the blood-royal of life : let 
there be slight degrees of precedency among them — but let them be 
all sacred. Whether this last sentiment be right or wrong, I am not 
accoun'?ble • it is an original component feature of my mind. 

R. B. 



1^ 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




No. CCXXXVIII. 
SYLVANDER TO CLARINDA. 
[Burns had been to Edinburgh at the end of November and beginning of 
De'cember, and had there seen Mrs. M'Lehose. She had resolved to go to her 
worthless but repentant husband in Jamaica, and sailed in February, 1792.] 

I HAVE received both your last letters, Madam, and ought and would 
have answered the first long ago. But on what subject shall I write 
you? How can you expect a correspondent should write you when you 
declare that you mean to preserve his letters, with a view, sooner or later, 
to expose them in the pillory of derision and the rock of criticism ? This 
is gagging me completely as to speaking the sentiments of my bosom ; 
else. Madam, 1 could perhaps too truly — 

" Join grief with grief, and echo sighs to thine! " 

I have perused your most beautiful but most pathetic poem ; do not ask 
me how often, or with what emotions. You know that " 1 dare to sin, 
but not to lie. " Your verses wring the confession from my inmost soul, 
that — I will say it, expose it if you please — that I have more than once in 
my life been the victim of a damning conjuncture of circumstances ; and 
that to see you must be ever — 

" Dear as the light that visits these sad eyes." 

I have just, since I had yours, composed the following stanzas. Let me 
know your opinion of them. 

[Here are transcribed the lines beginning, " Sweet Sensibility, how charming," &c.] 

No. CCXXXIX. 
TO CLARINDA. 
[Enclosing the " Lament of Mary, Queen of Scots," Burns wrote as follows : — ] 
Leadhills, Thursday Noon [Dec. 11, 1791]. 

Such, my dearest Clarinda, were the words of the amiable but un- 
fortunate Mary. Misfortune seems to take a peculiar pleasure in darting 
her arrows against " honest men and bonny lasses. " Of this you are too, 
too just a proof : but may your future be a bright exception to the remark. 
In the words of Hamlet — 

" Adieu, adieu, adieu! Remember me." 

Sylvander. 

No. CCXL. 
TO Ci.ARINDA. 

Dumfries [15M December (?), 1791]- 

I HAVE some merit, my ever dearest of women, in attracting and 
securing the honest heart of Clarinda. In her I meet with the most 



fe, 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




accomplished of all womankind, the first of all God's works, and yet I, 
even I, have the good fortune to appear amiable in her sight. 

By the by, this is the sixth letter that I have written since 1 left you ; 
and if you were an ordinary being, as you are a creature very extraordinary 
— an instance of what God Almighty, in the plenitude of His power and 
the fulness of His goodness can make ! — I would never forgive you for not 
answering my letters. 

I have sent your hair, a part of the parcel you gave me, with a measure, 
to Mr. Brice, the jeweller, to get a ring done for me. I have likewise 
sent in the verses " On Sensibility, " altered to — 

" Sensibility, how charming, 
Dearest Nancy, thou can tell," &c., 

to the editor of " Scots Songs, " of which you have three volumes, to sf t 
to a most beautiful air — out of compliment to the first of women, my 
ever-beloved, my ever-sacred Clarinda. I shall probably write you to- 
morrow. In the meantime, from a man who is literally drunk accept and 
forgive! — R. B. 

No. CCXLI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, \^th December, 1791. 

Many thanks to you. Madam, for your good news respecting the little 
floweret and the mothe'-plant. I hope my poetic prayers have been 
heard, and will be answered up to the warmest sincerity of their fullest 
extent; and then Mrs. Henri will find her little darling the representative 
of his late parent, in everything but his abridged existence. 

I have just finished the following song, which to a lady, the descendant 
of Wallace, and many heroes of liis truly illustrious line, and herself the 
mother of several soldiers, needs neither preface nor apology : — 

•• Scene —A Field of Battle. Time of the Day — Evening. The wounded and dying of the 
victorio7is army are supposed to join in the following 

Song of Death. 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and ye skies 

Now gay with the broad setting sun: 
Farewell, loves and friendships, ye dear, tender ties — 

Our race of existence is run ! " — &c. 

The circumstance that gave rise to the foregoing verses was, looking 
over with a musical friend McDonald's collection of Highland airs, I was 
struck with one, an Isle of Skye tune, entitled '^ Oran an Aoig ; or, the 
Song of Death," to the measure of which I have adapted my stanzas. I 
have of late composed two or three other little pieces, which, ere yon full- 
orbed moon, wliose broad impudent face now stares at old mother earth 
all nitiht, shall have shrunk into a modest crescent, just peeping forth at 
dewy dawn, 1 shall find an hour to transcril:ie for you. .1 Dleu je rons 
commende. — R. B. 




THE LETTERS OE BURNS. 503 



No. CCXLII. 
TO MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE, 

I'RINTER. 

[This letter introduces Mrs. Riddel to Smellie, the self-taught scholar and 
naturalist.] 

Dumfries, iid January, 1792. 

I SIT down, my dear Sir, to introduce a }oung lady to you, and a lady 
in the first ranks of fashion, too. What a task ! to you — who care no 
more for the herd of animals called young ladies, than you do for the herd 
of animals called young gentlemen. To you — who despise and detest the 
groupings and combinations of Fashion, as an idiot painter that seems 
industrious to place staring fools and unprincipled knaves in the foreground 
of his picture, while men of sense and honesty are too often thrown in 
the dimmest shades. Mrs. Riddel, who will take this letter to town with 
her, and send it to you, is a character that, even in your own wa\-, as a 
naturalist and a philosopher, would be an acquisition to your acquaintance. 
The lady, too, is a votary to the Muses ; and as I think myself somewhat 
of a judge in my own trade, I assure you that her verses, always correct 
and often elegant, are much beyond the common run of the lady poetesses 
of the day. She is a great admirer of your book ; and, hearing me sa\- 
that I was acquainted with you, she begged to be known to you, as she 
is just going to pay her first visit to our Caledonian capital. I told her 
that her best way was, to desire her near relation, and vour intimate friend, 
Craigdarroch, to have you at his house while she was there ; and lest you 
might think of a lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as girls of eighteen 
too often deserve to be thought of, I should take care to remove that preju- 
dice. To be impartial, however, in appreciating the lady's merits, she 
has one unlucky failing ; a failing which you witl easily discover, as she 
seems rather pleased in indulging in it, and a failing that you will 
pardon, as it is a sin which very much besets yourself: — where she 
dislikes, or despises, she is apt to make no more a secret of it than where 
she esteems and respects. 

I will not present you with the unmeaning compliments of the season. 
but I will send you my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers, that 
Fortune may never throw your subsistence to the mercy of a knave, or 
set your character on the judgment of a fool ; but that, upright and 
erect, you may walk to an honest grave, where men of letters shall say. 
Here lies a man who did honour to science, and men of worth shall 
say. Here lies a man who did honour to human nature. — R. B. 

No. CCXLIII. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

My dear Friend, Dumfries, sth Feb., 1792. 

1 send you by the bearer, Mr. Clarke, a particular friend of mine, 
.six pounds and a shilling, which you will dispose of as follows: — five 



n 



^^ 





-^=L 



504 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

pounds ten shillings, per account, I owe Mr. R. Burn, architect, for erecting 
the stone over the grave of poor Fergusson. He was two years in erecting 
it after I had commissioned him for it, and I have been two years in 
paying him after he sent me his account ; so he and I are quits. He had 
the hardiesse to ask the interest on the sum ; but considering that the 
money was due by one poet for putting a tombstone over another, he may, 
with grateful surprise thank Heaven that he ever saw a farthing of it. 

With the remainder of the money pay yourself for the " Office of a 
Messenger" that I bought of you ; and send me by Mr. Clarke a note of 
its price. Send me likewise the fifth vol. of the "Observer" by Mr. 
Clarke ; and if any money remains, let it stand to account. 

I sent you a maukin [hare] by last week's fly, which I hope vou received. 

R. B. 

No. CCXLIV. 

TO MR. W. NICOL. 

[This is an ironical reply to a letter containing (according to Dr. Currie) good 
advice.] 

20th February. 

O THOU, wisest among the wise, meridian blaze of prudence, full moon 
of discretion, and chief of many counsellors! How infinitely is thy 
puddle-headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round-headed slave indebted 
to thy supereminent goodness, that from the luminous path of thy own 
right-lined rectitude thou lookest benignly down on an erring wretch, of 
whom the zigzag wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, from the 
simple copulation of units up to the hidden mysteries of fluxions ! May 
one feeble ra}- of that light of wisdom which darts from thy sensorium, 
straight as the arrow of heaven, and bright as the meteor of inspiration, 
may it be my portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the face and 
favour of that father of proverbs and master of maxims, that antipode of 
folly, and magnet among sages, the wise and witty Willie Nicol ! Amen ! 
Amen ! Yea, so be it ! 

For me, I am a beast, a reptile, and know nothing ! From the cave of 
my ignorance, amid the fogs of my dullness, and pestilential fumes of my 
political heresies, I look up to thee, as doth a toad through the iron-barred 
lucerne of a pestiferous dungeon to the cloudless glory of a summer sun ! 
Sorely sighing in bitterness of soul, I say, when shall my name be the 
quotation of the wise, and my countenance be the delight of the godly, 
like the illustrious lord of Laggan's many hills? As for him, his works 
are perfect : never did the pen of calumny blur the fair page of his reputa- 
tion, nor the bolt of hatred fly at his dwelling. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the elfine lamp of my glimmerous 
understanding, purged from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine like 
the constellation of thv intellectual powers? As for thee, thy thoughts 
are pure, and thy lips are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath of the 
powers of darkness, and the pleasures of darkness, pollute the sacred flame 
of thy sky-descended and heaven-bound desires : never did the vapours of 



w 




^. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 505 

impurity stain the unclouded serene of thy cerulean imagination. O that 
like thine were the tenor of my life, like thine the tenor of my conversation ! 
Then should no friend fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my weak- 
ness. Then should I lie down and rise up, and none to make me afraid. 
May thy pity and thy prayer be exercised for, O thou lamp of wisdom and 
mirror of morality ! thy devoted slave. — R. B. 



No. CCXLV. 

TO FRANCIS GROSE, ESQ., F.S.A. 

Sir, Dumfries, 1792. 

I believe among all our Scots literati you have not met with Pro- 
fessor D^gald Stewart, who fills the Moral Philosophy chair in the Univer- 
sity of Edinburgh. To say that he is a man of the first parts, and, what is 
more, a man of the first worth, to a gentleman of your general acquaint- 
ance, and who so much enjoys the luxury of unencumbered freedom and 
undisturbed privacy, is not perhaps recommendation enough : but when 
I inform you that IVIr. Stewart's principal characteristic is your favourite 
feature — that sterling independence of mind which, though every man's 
right, so few men have the courage to claim, and fewer still the mag- 
nanimity to support ; when I tell you, that unseduced by splendour, and 
undisgusted by wretchedness, he appreciates the merit's of the various 
actors in the great drama of life merely as they perform their parts; — in 
short, he is a man after your own heart, and I comply with his earnest 
request in letting you know that he wishes above all things to meet with 
you. His house, Catrine, is within less than a mile of Sorn Castle, which 
you proposed visiting; or if you could transmit him the enclosed, he 
would, with the greatest pleasure, meet you anywhere in the neighbour- 
hood. 1 write to Ayrshire to inform Mr. Stewart that I have acquitted 
myself of m}- promise. Should your tin-e and spirits permit your meeting 
with Mr. Stewart, 'tis well ; if not, I hope you will forgive this liberty : and 
I have at least an opportunity of assuring you with what truth and respect, 
I am, Sir, 

Your great Admirer 

And very humble Servant, 

R. B.i 

' Another letter to Capt. Grose, giving the legends of Alloway Kirk, will be found in the notes 
to the poem. 



No. CCXLVI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, 22d Atigttst, 1792. 

Do not blame me for it, Madam ; my own conscience, hackneyed 
and weather-beaten as it is in watching and reproving my vagaries 
follies, indolence, &c., has continued to punish me sufficiently. . . . 



-^- 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



Do you think it possible, my dear and honoured friend, that I could be 
so lost to gratitude for many favours, to esteem for much worth, and to 
the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now, old acquaintance, and I hope 
and I am sure of progressive, increasing friendship, as for a single day 
not to think of you, to ask the Fates what they are doing and about to do 
with my much-loved friend and her wide-scattered connexions, and to 
beg of them to be as kind to you and yours as they possibly can? 

Apropos (though how it is apropos I have not leisure to explain), 
do you know that I am almost in love with an acquaintance of yours ? — 
Almost! said I? — I am in love; souse! over head and ears, deep as the 
most unfathomable abyss of the boundless ocean : but the word Love, 
owning to the iiiterjiiingledoiiis of the good and the bad, the pure and the 
impure, in this world, being rather an equivocal term for expressing one's 
sentiments and sensations, I must do justice to the sacred purity of my 
attachment. Know, then, that the heart-struck awe ; the distant, humble 
approach , the delight we should have in gazing upon and listening to a 
Messenger of Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity of his celes- 
tial home among the coarse, polluted, far inferior sons of men, to deliver 
to them tidings that make their hearts swim in joy and their imaginations 
soar in transport — such, so delighting and so pure, were the emotions of 
my soul on meeting the other day with Miss Lesley Baillie, your neigh- 
bour, at M . Mr. B. with his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. 

of G., passing through Dumfries a few days ago, on their way to England, 
did me the honour of calling on me ; on which I took my horse (though 
God knows I could ill spare the time), and accompanied them fourteen or 
fifteen miles, and dined and spent the clay with them. 'Twas about nine, 
i think, when I left them, and, riding home, I composed the following 
ballad, of which you will probably think you have a dear bargain, as it 
will cost you another groat of postage. You must know that there is an 
old ballad beginning with — 

" My bonni'' Lizie Baillie, 

I'll rowe thee in my plaidie," — &c. 

So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the first copy, " unanointed, 
unanneal'd," as Hamlet says : — 

" O saw ye bonnie Lesley, 

As she gaed o'er the border? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther." 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are gone to the east country, as 
I am to be in Ayrshire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, notwith- 
standing it has many good things in it, yet it has ever had this curse, that 
two or three people, who would be the happier the oftener they met toge- 
ther, are, almost without exception, always so placed as never to meet but 
once or twice a year ; which, considering the few years of a man's life, is a 
very great " evil under the sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon has 
mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries of man. I hope and believe 
that there is a state of existence beyond the grave, where the worthy of 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



507 



this life will renew their former intimacies, with this endearing addition, 
that " we meet to pari; no more ! "* . . . 

" Tell us, ye dead ; 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret, 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be? " 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe to the departed sons of 
men, but not one of them has ever thought fit to answer the question. 
" O that some courteous ghost would blab it out ! " but it cannot be ; you 
and I, my friend, must make the experiment by ourselves, and for our- 
selves. However, I am so convinced that an unshaken faith in the doc- 
trines of religion is not only necessary, by making us better men, but also 
by making us happier men, that I should take every care that your little 
godson, and every little creature that shall call me father, shall be taught 
them. 

So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at this wild place of the 
world, in the intervals of my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua. — R. B. 



No. CCXLVII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, \oth Septejnber, 1792. 

No ! I will not attempt an apology. Amid all my hurry of business, 
grinding the faces of the publican and the sinner on the merciless wheels 
of the Exci.se ; making ballads, and then drinking, and singing them ; 
and, over and above all, the correcting the press-work of two different 
publications ; still, still I might have stolen five minutes to dedicate to one 
of the first of my friends and fellow-creatures. I might have done, as I do 
at present, snatched an hour near " witching time of night,'" and scrawled 
a page or two. I might have congratulated my friend on his marriage ; 
or I might have thanked the Caledonian archers for the honour they have 
done me (though, to do myself justice, I intended to have done both in 
rhyme; else I had done both long ere now). Well, then, here is to your 
good health ! for you must know I have set a nipperkin of toddy by me, 
just by way of spell, to keep away the meikle-horned Deil, or any of his 
subaltern imps who maybe on their nightly rounds. 

But what shall I write to you? "The voice said. Cry," and I .said, 
•' What shall I cry? " O thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or wherever thou 
makest thyself visible ! — be thou a bogle by the eerie side of an auld thorn, 
in the dreary glen through which the herd-callan maun bicker in his gloani- 
in' route frae the faulde ! — Be thou a brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy 
task by the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn, where the repercussions 
of thy iron flail half affright thyself, as thou performest the work of twenty 
of the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing summon thee to thy ample cog 
of substantial brose ! — Be thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or ferry, in the 
starless night, mixing thy laughing yell with the howling of the storm and 





-ti 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



the roaring of the flood, as thou viewest the perils and miseries of man on 
the foundering horse, or in the tumbling boat ! — Or, lastly, be thou a 
ghost, paying thy nocturnal visits to the hoary ruins of decayed grandeur ; 
or performing th}' mystic rites in the shadow of the time-worn church, 
while the moon looks, without a cloud, on the silent, ghastly dwellings of 
the dead around thee ; or, taking thy stand by the bedside of the villain or 
the murderer, portraying on his dreaming fancy pictures dreadful as the 
horrors of unveiled hell, and terrible as the wrath of incensed Deity! — 
Come, thou spirit, but not in these horrid forms ; come with the milder, 
gentle, easy inspirations which thou breathest round the wig of a prating 
advocate, or the tete of a tea-sipping gossip, while their tongues run at the 
light-horse gallop of clish-maclaver for ever and ever ; come and assist a 
poor devil who is quite jaded in the attempt to share half an idea among 
half a hundred words, to fill up four Cjuarto pages, while he has not got 
one single sentence of recollection, information, or remark worth putting 
pen to paper for. 

I feel, 1 feel the presence of supernatural assistance! Circled in the 
embrace of my elbow chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil on 
her three-footed stool, and, Ifke her too, labours with Nonsense. — Non- 
sense, auspicious name ! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the mystic mazes 
of law, the cadaverous paths of physic, and particularly in the sightless 
soarings of school divinity ; who — leaving Common Sense confounded at 
his strength of pinion. Reason delirious with eyeing his giddy flight, and 
Truth creeping back into the bottom of her well, cursing the hour that 
ever she offered her scorned alliance to the wizard power of Theologic 
Vision — raves abroad on all the winds : "On earth Discord! a gloomy 
heaven above, opening her jealous gates to the nineteen-thousandth part 
of the tithe of mankind! and below, an inescapable and inexorable hell, 
expanding its leviathan jaws for the vast residue of mortals ! ! ! " O doc- 
trine comfortable and healing to the weary, wounded soul of man ! Ye 
sons and daughters of affliction, ye pattvres miserahles, to whom day 
brings no pleasure, and night yields no rest, be comforted! " 'Tis but 
one to nineteen hundred thousand that your situation will mend in this 
world." So, alas ! the experience of the poor and needy too often affirms ; 
and 'tis nineteen hundred thousand to one, by the dogmas of . . ., that 
you will be damned eternally in the world to come ! 

But, of all Nonsense, Religious Nonsense is the most nonsensical ; so 
enough, and more than enough of it. Only, by the by, will you, or can 
you, tell me, my dear Cunningham, why a sectarian turn of the mind has 
always a tendency to narrow and illiberalize the heart ? They are 
orderly ; they may be just ; nay, I have known them merciful ; but still 
your children of sanctity move among their fellow-creatures with a nos- 
tril snuffing putrescence and a foot spurning filth, — in short, with a con- 
ceited dignity that your titled ... or any other of your Scottish 
lordlings of seven centuries' standing display, when they accidentally mix 
among the many-aproned sons of mechanical life. I remember, in my 
ploughboy days, I could not conceive it possible that a noble lord could 
be a fool, or a godly man could be a knave. How ignorant are plough- 



%. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




boys ! Nay, I have since discovered that a godly woman may be a 

! — But hold — Here's f ye again — this mm is generous Antigua ; 

so a very unfit menstruum for scandal. 

Apropos, how do you like — I mean really like — the married life? Ah, 
m\- friend, matrimony is quite a different thing from what your love-sick 
youths and sighing girls take it to be ! But marriage, we are told, is 
appointed by God, and I shall never quarrel with any of His institutions. 
I am a husband of older standing than you, and shall give you my ideas 
of the conjugal state {en passant — you know I am no Latinist — is not (Ti^w- 
///^(z/ derived from jngitm, a yoke?). Well, then, the scale of good wife- 
ship I divide into ten parts : -_ — Goodnature, four ; Good Sense, two ; Wit, 
one ; Personal Charms, viz. a sweet face, eloquent eyes, fine limbs, grace- 
ful carriage (I would add a fine waist too, but that is so soon spoilt, you 
know), atl these, one: as for the other qualities belonging to, or attending 
on, a wife, such as Fortune, Connexions, Education (I mean education 
extraordinary). Family Blood, &c., divide the two remaining degrees among 
them as you please ; only remember that all these minor properties must 
be expressed l3y fractions, for there is not any one of them, in the afore- 
said scale, entitled to.the dignity of an integer. 

As for the rest of my fancies and reveries — how I lately met with Miss 
Lesley Baillie, the most beautiful, elegant woman in the world — how I 
accompanied her and her father's family fifteen miles on their journey, out 
of pure devotion, to admire the loveliness of the works of God in such an 
unequalled display of them — how, in galloping home at n'ght, I made a 
ballad on her, of which these two stanzas make a part — 

Thou, bonie Lesley, art a queen, 

Thy subjects we before thee; 
Thou, bonie Lesley, art divine, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 

The ver>' Deil he could na scathe 

Whatever wad belang thee! 
He'd look into thy bonie face 

And say, " I canna wrang thee." 

— behold all these things are written in the chronicles of my imaginations, 
and shall be read by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved spouse, my 
other dear friend, at a more convenient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy before-designed /^^j^w/z-companion, be given 
the precious things brought forth by the sun, and the precious things 
l:)rought forth by the moon, and the benignest influences of the stars, and 
the living streams which flow from the fountains of life, and by the tree of 
life, foi" ever and ever / Amen. — R. B. 




^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CCXLVIII. 

TO MR. G. THOMSON. 

[In the autumn of 1792 Mr. G. Thomson of Edinburgh planned "A select 
Collection of original Scottish Airs; to which are a(Med Symphonies and Accom- 
paniments by Pleyel and Kozeluck, with characteristic Verses by the most esteemed 
Scottish Poets;" and as Burns was the only poet of that period worthy of the name, 
he was instantly applied to, to furnish verses to some airs which were not already 
supplied with any, or at least with satisfactory, words.] 

Sir, Dumfries, idth Sept., 1792. 

I have just this moment got your letter. As the request you make 
to me will positively add to my enjoyments in complying vv^ith it, I shall 
enter into your undertaking with all the small portion of abilities I have, 
strained to tiieir utmost exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. Only 
don't hurry me : " Deil tak' the hindmost " is by no means the cri de guerre 
of my muse. Will you, as I am inferior to none of you in enthusiastic 
attachment to the poetry and music of old Caleclonia, and, since you 
request it, have cheerfully promised my mite of assistance — will you let me 
have a list of your airs, with the first line of the printed verses you intend 
for them, that I may have an opportunity of suggesting any alteration that 
may occur to me ? You know 'tis in the w-ay of my trade ; still leaving 
you, gentlemen, the undoubted right of publishers to approve or reject. ;.t 
your pleasure, for your own publication. Apropos, if you are for English 
verses, there is, on my part, an end of the matter. Whether in the sim- 
plicity of the ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only hope to please 
myself in being allowed at least a sprinkling of our native tongue. English 
verses, particularlv the works of Scotsmen, that have merit, are certainly 
very eligible. " Tweedside " — " Ah, the poor shepherd's mournful fate ! " 
— "Ah, Chloris ! could I now but sit," &c., you cannot mend; but such 
insipid stuff as " To Fanny fair could I impart," &c., usually set to " The 
Mill, Mill, O ! " is a disgrace to the collections in which it has already 
appeared, and would doubly disgrace a collection that will have the very 
superior merit of yours. But more of this in the farther prosecution of 
the business, if I am called on for my strictures and amendments ; — I say 
amendments : for I will not alter except where 1 myself, at least, think that 
I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my songs either above or below 
price ; for they shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the honest 
enthusiasm with which I embark in your undertaking, to talk of money, 
wages, fee, hire, &c.. would be downright prostitution of soul ! A proof of 
each of the songs that I compose or amend I shall receive as a favour. 
In the rustic phrase of the season, " Gude .speed the wark ! " 

I am. Sir, 
Your very humble Servant, 

R. Burns. 



^= 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




No. CCXLIX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[Mrs. Henri, iSIrs. Dunlop's widowed daughter, had gone to France to intro- 
duce her boy to his father's family, and found herself in the midst of the terrible 
convulsion of the great Revolution.] 

Dumfries, 24M September, 1792. 

1 HAVE this moment, my dear Madam, yours of the 23d. All your 
other kind reproaches, your news, &c., are out of my head when I 
read and think on Mrs. Henri's situation. Good God! a heart-wounded, 
helpless young woman in a strange, foreign land, and that land convulsed 
with every horror that can harrow the human feelings — sick — looking, 
longing for a comforter, but finding none — a mother's feelings, too ; — but 
it is too much : He who wounded (He only can), may He heal ! . . . 

I wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisition to his family. . . . 
I cannot say that I give him joy of his life as a farmer. 'Tis, as a 
farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, a cursed life ! As to a laird 
tarming his own property ; sowing his own corn in hope, and reaping 
it, in spite of brittle weather, in gladness ; knowing that none can say unto 
him, " What dost thou? " fattening his herds ; shearing his flocks ; rejoicing 
at Christmas ; and begetting sons and daughters, until he be the venerated, 
grey-haired leader of a little tribe — 'tis a heavenly life ! but devil take the 
life of reaping the fruits that another must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to seeing me when I make 
my Ayrshire visit. I cannot leave Mrs. B. until her nine months' race is 
run, which may perhaps be in three or four weeks. She, too, seems deter- 
mined to make me the patriarchal leader of a band. However, if Heaven 
will be so obliging as to let me have them in the proportion of three boys 
to one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. I hope, if I am spared 
with them, to show a set of boys that will do honour to my cares and 
name ; but I am not equal to the task of rearing girls. ^ Besides, I arn 
too poor ; a girl should always have a fortune. Apropos, your little godson 
is thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. He, though two years younger, 
has completely mastered his brotrher. Robert is indeed the mildest, 
gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a most surprising memory, and is 
quite the pride of his schoolmaster. 

Your know how readily we get into prattle upon a subject dear to out 
heart ; you can excuse it. God bless you and yours ! — R. B. 

No. CCL. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

Friday Night. 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. Percy's ballad, "C- 
Nancy, wilt thou go with me.?" to the air, "Nannie, O!" is just. It is, 
besides, perhaps the most beautiful ballad in the English language. Bu, 

1 The child proved to be a girl, born 21st November : she was named Elizabeth Riddel, 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



let me remark to you, that in the sentiment and style of our Scottish airs 
there is a pastoral simplicity, a something that one may call the Doric 
style and dialect of vocal music, to which a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is particularly, nay peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, 
upon my honour, for this reason alone, I am of opinion (but, as I told you 
before, my opinion is yours, freely yours, to approve or reject, as you please) 
that my ballad of " Nannie, O ! " might perhaps do for one set of verses to 
the tune. Now don't let it enter into your head, that you are under any 
necessity of taking my verses. I have long ago made up my mind as to 
my own reputation in the business of authorship, and have nothing to 
be i:)leased or offended at in your adoption or rejection of my verses. 
Though you should reject one half of what I give you, I shall be pleased 
with your adopting the other half, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my " Nannie, O ! " the name of the river is horribly 
prosaic. I will alter it : — 

" Behind yon hills where Lugar flows." ' 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the idea of the stanza best, 
but Lugar is the most agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I will soon give you a great many more remarks on this business; but 
I have just now an opportunity o? conveying you this scrawl free of 
postage, an expense that it is ill able to pay : so, with my best compliments 
to honest Allan, Gude be wi' ye, &c. 

Saturday Mornifig. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking of going to the West Indies, 
I took the following farewell of a dear girl. It is cjuite trifling, and has 
nothing of the merits of " Ewe-bughts " ; but it will fill up this page. You 
must know that all my earlier love-songs were the breathings of ardent 
passion ; and though it might have been easy in after-times to have given 
them a polish, yet that polish, to me, whose they were, and who perhaps 
alone cared for them, would have defaced the legend of my heart, which 
was so faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth simplici y was, as 
they say of wines, their race. , 

[Here are inserted the verses " Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary." Page 236.] 

No. CCLI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[.Supposed to have been written on the death of Mrs. Henri, her daughter.] 

[Ociohc7-, 1792.] 

1 HAD been from home, and did not receive your letter until my return 
the other day. What shall I say to comfort you, my much-valued, much- 
afflicted friend ! I can but grieve with you : consolation I have none to 
offer, except that which religion holds out to the children of affliction. 

editions of his poems were 




■ Althoiigh after the date of this letter, during the poet's life, t\ 
published (1793 and 1794) the name of the river remained unaltered. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



513 



Children of affliction ! — how just the expression ! and like every other 
family, they have matters among them which they hear, see, and feel in a 
oerious, all-important manner, of which the world has not, nor cares to 
have, any idea. The world looks indifferently on, makes the passing 
remark, and proceeds to the next novel occurrence. 

Alas, Madam! who would wish for many years? What is it but to 
drag existence until our joys gradually expire, and leave us in a night of 
misery : like the gloom which blots out the stars one by one from the 
face of night, and leaves us, without a ray of comfort, in the howling 
waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You shall soon hear from me 
again. — R. B. 



No. CCLII. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dumfries, 6th December, 1792. 

I SHALL be in Ayrshire, I think, next week; and, if at all possible, I 
shall certainly, my much esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting at 
Dunlop House. 

Alas, Madam ! how seldom do we meet in this world, that we have 
reason to congratulate ourselves on accessions of happiness ! I have not 
passed half the ordinary term of an old man's life, and yet I scarcely look 
over the obituary of a newspaper that I do not see some names that I 
have known, and which I, and other acquaintances, little thought to meet 
with there so soon. Every other instance of the mortality of our kind 
makes us cast an anxious look into the dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and 
sliudder with apprehension for our own fate. But of how different an 
importance are the lives of different individuals ! Nay, of what importance 
is one period of the same life, more than another ! A few years ago 1 
could have laid down in the dust, "careless of the voice of the morning"; 
and now not a few, and these most helpless individuals, would, on losing 
me and my exertions, lose both their " staff and shield." By the way, 
these helpless ones have lately got an addition ; Mrs. B. having given me 
a fine girl since 1 wrote you. There is a charming passage in Thomson's 
" Edward and Eleanora" : — 

" The valiant, zh himself, what can he suffer? 
Or what need he regard his single woes? " — &c. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall give you another from the 
same piece, peculiarly — alas! too peculiarly — apposite, my dear Madam, 
your present frame of mind : — 

" Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main? the tempest comes; 
The rough winds rage aloud; when from the helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies 
Lamenting. — Heavens ! if privileged from trial 
How cheap a thing were virtue ! " 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



I do not remember to have heard you mention Thomson's dramas. I 
pick up favourite quotations, and store them in my mind as ready armour, 
oiTensive or defensive, amid the struggle of this turbulent existence. Of 
these is one, a very favourite one, from his " Alfred " : — 

" Attach thee firmly to the virtuous deeds 
And offices of Hfe; to life itself, 
With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably I have quoted some of these to you formerly, as indeed, when 
.write from the heart, I am apt to be guilty of such repetitions. The 
compass of the heart, in the musical st}Te of expression, is much more 
bounded than that of the imagination ; so the notes of the former are 
extremely apt to run into one another ; but in return for the paucity of its 
compass, its few notes are much more sweet. I must still give you another 
quotation, which I am almost sure I have given you before, but I cannot 
resist the temptation. The subject is religion : speaking of its importance 
to mankind, the author says, 

" 'Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning bright." 

I see you are in for double postage, so I shall e'en scribble out t'other 
sheet. We in this country here have many alarms of the reforming, or 
rather the republican, spirit of your part of the kingdom. Indeed, we are 
a good deal in commotion ourselves. For me, I am a placeman, you 
know ; a very humble one indeed, Heaven knows, but still so much as to 
gag me. What my private sentiments are, you will find out without an 
interpreter. . . . 

I have taken up the subject, and the other day, for a pretty actress's 
benefit-night, I wrote an address, which 1 will give on the other page, 
called '• The Rights of Woman " : — 

" While Europe's eye is fixed on mighty things." {Page in.) 

I shall have the honour of receiving your criticisms in person at 
Dunlop. — R. B. 



No. CCLIII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

November %th, 1792. 

If you mean, my dear Sir, that all the songs in your collection shall be 
poetry of the first merit. I am afraid you will find more difficulty in the 
undertaking than you are aware of. There is a peculiar rhythmus in 
many of our airs, and a necessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, 
or what I would call the feature-notes of the tune, that cramp the poet, 
and lay him under almost insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the 
.-lir, " My wife's a wanton wee thing," if a few lines smooth and pretty can 
be adapted to it, it is all you can expect. The following were made 
extempore to it ; and though, on farther study, I might give you some- 




p 



m 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



515 



thing more profound, yet it might not suit tlie light-horse gallop of the 
air so well as this random clink : — 

["The Winsome Wee Thing." Page 180.] 



No. CCLIV. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

MV DEAR Sir, •^'.th Nove^iher, ti^i. 

I agree with you that the song, "Katharine Ogie," is very poor 
stuff, and unworthy, altogether unworthy, of so beautiful an air. 1 tried 
to mend it ; but the awkward sound, Ogie, recurring so often in the 
rhyme, spoils every attempt at introducing sentiment into the piece. 
The foregoing song [" Highland Mary," page 226] pleases myself ; I think 
it is in my happiest manner : you will see at first glance that it suits the 
air. The subject of the song is one of the most interesting passages of 
my vouthful days ; and I own that I should be much flattered to see the 
verses set to an air which would ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, His 
the stil' glowing prejudice of my heart that throws a borrowed lustre over 
the merits of the composition. 

I have partly taken your idea of " Auld Rob Morris." I have adopted 
the two first verses, and am going on with the song on a new plan, which 
promises pretty well. I take up one or another, just as the bee of the 
moment buzzes in my bonnet-lug : and do you, sans ccremonie, make what 
use you choose of the productions. — Adieu, &c. — R. B. 



No. CCLV. 

TO MISS FONTENELI.E. 

[Burns was very fond of the theatre, and had, as we have seen, some notion of 
trying his hand at dramatic writing. Miss Fontenelle was a youthful member of 
the company which at stated seasons visited Dumfries, playing such parts as 
" Little Pickle " : she was very sprightly and petite in figure.] 

Madam, 

In such a bad world as ours, those who add to the scanty sum of 
our pleasures are positively our benefactors. To you. Madam, on our 
humble Dumfries boards, I have been more indebted for entertainment 
than ever I was in prouder theatres. Your charms as a woman would 
ensure applause to the most indilTerent actress, and your theatrical talents 
.would ensure admiration to the plainest figure. This, Madam, is not the 
unmeaning or insidious compliment of the frivolous or the interested : I 
pay it from the same honest impulse that the sublime in nature excites my 
admiration, or her beauties give me delight. 

Will the foregoing lines [" The Rights of Woman : An Address "] be of 
any service to you in your approaching benefit-night? If they will, I shall 




5 1 6 THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 

be prouder of my muse than ever. They are nearly extempore : I know 
they have no great merit ; but though they should add but little to the 
entertainment of the evening, they give me the happiness of an opportunity 
to declare how much I have'the honour to be, &c. — R. B. 



No. CCLVI. 
TO A LADY. 

IN FAVOUR OF A PLAYER'S BENEFIT. 

Madam, Dumfries. 

You were so very good as to promise me to honour my friend with 
your presence on his benefit-night. That night is fixed for Friday first : 
the play a most interesting one, "The Way to keep Him." I have the 
pleasure to know Mr. G. well. His merit as an actor is generally acknowl- 
edged. He has genius and worth which would do honour to patronage : 
he is a poor and modest man ; claims which from their very silence have 
the more forcible power on the generous heart. Alas, for pity ! that from 
the indolence of those who have the good things of this life in their gift, 
too often does brazen-fronted importunity snatch that boon, the rightful 
due of retiring, humble want ! Of all the qualities we assign to the 
Author and Director of Nature, by far the most enviable is to be able 
" to wipe away all tears from all eyes." O what insignificant, sordid 
wretches are they, however chance may have loaded them with wealth, 
who go to their graves, to their magnificent mausoleums, with hardly the 
consciousness of having made one poor honest heart happy ! 

But I crave your pardon. Madam ; I came to beg, not to preach. — ^R. B. 



No. CCLVII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

I WILL wait on you, my ever valued friend, but whether in the morning 
I am not sure. Sunday closes a period of our curst revenue business, and 
may probably keep me employed with my pen until noon. Fine employ- 
ment for the poet's pen ! There is a species of human genius that I call 
ike gin-house class : what enviable dogs they are I Round and round and 
round they go. MundelPs ox, that drives his cotton-mill, i is their exact 
prototype — without an idea or wish beyond their circle — fat, sleek, stupid, 
patient, quiet, and contented; while here I sit, altogether Novemberish, a 

d d me'lange of fretfulness and melancholy ; not enough of the one to , 

rouse me to passion, nor of the other to repose me in torpor : my soul 
flouncing and fluttering round his tenement like a wild-finch, caught 
among the horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. Well, I am 
persuaded that it was of me the Hebrew sage prophesied when he fore- 

' This was a primitive cotton-mill near Dumfries. 



3Tt 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



told: " And, behold, on whatsoever this man doth set his heart, it shall 
not prosper! '' If my resentment is awakened, it is sure to be where it 
dare not squeak; and if-- . . . Pray that wisdom and bliss be the 
frequent visitors of — R. B. 



No. CCLVIII. 
TO G. THOxMSON. 

[Mr. Thomson, criticising the songs with the ear of a musician, excuses himself 
for pointing out what he deems defects — " the wren will oversee what has been 
overlooked by the eagle."] 

Dumfries, \st Dec, 1792. 

Your alterations of my " Nannie, O ! " are perfectly right. So are those 
of '' My wife's a winsome wee thing": your alteration of the second 
stanza is a positive improvement. Now, my dear Sir, with the freedom 
which characterises our correspondence, I must not, cannot, alter " Bonie 
Lesley.'' You are right the word "Alexander" makes the line a little 
uncouth; but I think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, beyond all 
other heroes, it may be said, in the sublime language of Scripture, that 
'* he went forth conquering and to conquer." 

" For Nature made her what she is, 
And never made anither." (Such a person as she is.) 

This is, in my opinion, more poetical than " Ne'er made sic anither." 
However, it is immaterial: make it either way. " Caledonie," I agree 
with you, it is not so good a word as could be wished, though it is sanctioned 
in three or four instances by Allan Ramsay; but I cannot help it. In 
short, that species of stanza is the most difficult that I have ever tried. 

R. B. 



No. CCLIX. 
TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ., 

FINTRY. 
Sir December, 1792. 

I have been surprised, confounded, and distracted by Mr. Mitchell 
the collector, telling me that he has received an order from your Board to 
inquire into my political conduct, and blaming me as a person disalfected 
to Government. 

Sir, you are a husband — and a father. You know what you would feel 
to see the much-loved wife of your bosom, and your helpless, prattling 
little ones turned adrift into the world, degraded and disgraced from a 
situation in which they had been respectable and respected, and left 
almost without the necessary support of a miserable existence. Alas. 
Sir! must I think that such, soon, will be my lot! and from the d-mned. 
dark insinuations of hellish, groundless envy too ! I believe, Sir, I ma\ 






THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



aver it, and in the sight of Omniscience, that I would not tell a deliberate 
falsehood — no, not though even worse horrors, if worse can be, than those 
I have mentioned, hung over my head ; and I say. that the allegation, 
whatever villain has made it, is a lie ! To the British Constitution, on 
revolution principles, next after my God, I am most devoutly attached. 
You, Sir, have been much and generously my friend. Heaven knows how 
warmly I have felt the obligation, and how greatly I have thanked you. 
Fortune, Sir, has made you powerful, and me impotent; has given you 
patronage, and me dependence. I would not for my single self call on 
your humanity; were such my insular, unconnected situation, I would 
despise the tear that now swells in my eye — I could brave misfortune, I 
could face ruin ; for, at the worst. " Death's thousand doors stand open " : 
but, good God ! the tender concerns that I have mentioned, the claims 
and ties that I see at this moment, and feel around me, how they unnerve 
Courage, and wither Resolution ! To your patronage, as a man of genius, 
you have allowed me a claim; and your esteem, as an honest man, I 
know is my due : to these. Sir, permit me to appeal ; by these may I 
adjure you to save me from that misery which threatens to overwhelm me, 
and which, with .<ny latest breath I will say it, I have not deserved. — R. B. 



No. CCLX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Dear Madam, Dumfries, 31J/ Decetnber, 1792. 

A hurry of business, thrown in heaps by my absence, has until now 
prevented my returning my grateful acknowledgments to the good family 
of Dunlop, and you in particular, for that hospitable kindness which ren- 
dered the four days 1 spent under that genial roof four of the pleasantest 
I ever enjoyed. Alas, my dearest friend ! how few and fleeting are those 
things we call pleasures ! On my road to Ayrshire, I spent a night with a 
frien'd whom 1 much valued, a man whose days promised to be many ; and 
on Saturday last we laid him in the dust ! 

Jan. 2, 1793. 

I HAVE just received yours of the 30th, and feel much for your situation. 
However, I heartily rejoice in your prospect of recovery from that vile 
jaundice. As to myself, I am better, though not quite free of my com- 
plaint. You must not think, as you seem to insinuate, that in my way of 
life I want exercise. Of that I have enough ; but occasionally hard drink- 
ing is the devil to me. Against this I have again and again bent my 
resolution, and have greatly succeeded. Taverns I have totally abandoned : 
it is the private parties in the family way, among the hard-drinking gentle- 
men of this country, that do me the mischief; but even this I have more 
than half given over. 

Mr. Corbet can be of little service to me at present ; at least I should 
be shy of applying. I cannot possibly be settled as a supervisor for 
several years. l' must wait tl.e rotation of the list, and there are twenty 




THE LE T TERS OF B URNS, 5 1 9 

names before mine. I might indeed get a job of officiating, where a 
settled supervisor was ill, or aged ; but that hauls me from my family, as 
I could not remove them on such an uncertainty. Besides, some envious, 
malicious devil has raised a little demur on my political principles, and I 
wish to let that matter settle before I offer myself too much in the eye of 
my supervisors. I liave set. henceforth, a seal on my lips as to these 
unlucky politics ; but to you I must breath my sentiments. In this, as 
in everything else, I shall show the undisguised emotions of my soul. 
War I deprecate ; misery and ruin to thousands are in the blast that 
announces the destructive demon. — R. B. 



No. CCLXI. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

'^th January, 1793. 

You see my hurried life. Madam ; I can only command starts of time : 
however, I am glad of one thing ; since I finished the other sheet, the 
political blast that threatened my welfare is overblown. I have corre- 
sponded with Commissioner Graham, for the Board has made me the 
subject of their animadversions , and now I have the pleasure of informing 
you that all is set to rights in that quarter. Now, as to these informers, 

may the devil be let loose to But, hold ! I was praying most fervently 

in my last sheet, and I must not so soon fall a-swearing in this. 

Alas ! how little do the wantonly or idly officious think what mischief 
they do by their malicious insinuations, indirect impertinence, or thought- 
less blabbings. What a difference there is in intrinsic worth, candour, 
benevolence, generosity, kindness — in all the charities and all the virtues 
— between one class of human beings and another. For instance, the 
amiable circle I so lately mixed with in the hospitable hall of Dunlop — 
their generous hearts, their uncontaminated, dignified minds, their in- 
formed and polished understandings — what a contrast, when compared 
(if such comparing were not downright sacrilege) with the soul of the 
miscreant who can deliberately plot the destruction of an honest man 
that never offended him, and with a grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate 
being, his faithful wife, and prattling innocents, turned over to beggary 
and ruin ! 

Your cup, my dear Madam, arrived safe. I had two worthy fellows 
dining with me the other day, when I, with great formality, produced my 
whigmeeleerie cup, and told them that it had been a family-piece among 
the descendants of William Wallace. This roused such an enthusiasm, 
that they insisted on bumpering the punch round in it ; and, by and by, 
never did your great ancestor lay a Siithron more completely to rest, than 
for a time did your cup my two friends. Apropos, this is the season of 
wishing. May God bless you, my dear friend, and bless me, the humblest 
and sincerest of your friends, by granting you yet many returns of the 
season ! May all good things attend you and yours, wherever they are 
scattered over the earth ! — R. B. 






;t£IZ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CCLXII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

26M Jamtary, 1793. 

I APPROVE greatly, my dear Sir, of your plans. Dr. Beattie's essay 
will of itself be a treasure. On my part, I mean to draw up an appendix 
to the Doctor's e.ssay, containing my stock of anecdotes, &c., of our Scots 
songs. All the late Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken down, in 
the course of my acquaintance with him, from his own mouth. I am 
such an enthusiast, that in the course of my several peregrinations through 
Scotland I made a pilgrimage to the individual spot from which every 
song took its rise, " Lochaber " and the "Braes of Ballenden" excepted. 
So far as the locality, either from the title of the air or the tenor of the 
song, could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions at the particular 
shrine of every Scots muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very valuable collection of 
Jacobite songs, but would it give no offence? In the meantime, do not 
you think that some of them, particularly "The Sow's Tail to Geordie,"' 
as an air, with other words, might be well worth a place in your collection 
of lively songs ? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it would be proper to have 
one set of Scots words to every air, and that set ot words to which the 
notes ought to be set. There is a naivete., a pastoral simplicity, in a slight 
intermixture of Scots words and phraseology, which is more in unison (at 
least to my taste, and I will add, to every genuine Caledonian taste) with 
the simple pathos or rustic sprightliness of our native music, than any 
English verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisition to your work. His 
" Gregory " is beautiful. I have tried to give you a set of stanzas in Scots, 
on the same subject, which are at your service. Not that I intend to 
enter the lists with Peter ; that would be presumption indeed. My song, 
though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think more of the ballad 




simplicity in it. — R. B. 



No. CCLXIII. 

TO CLARINDA. 

[Poor Mrs. M'Lehose, finding her brutal husband's company quite unbearable, 
and her health breaking down, returned from Jamaica in August, 1792; but Burns 
did not know of it till some time afterwards.] 

I SUPPOSE, my dear Madam, that by your neglecting to mform me of 
your arrival in Europe — a circumstance that could not be indiiTerent to 
me, as indeed no occurrence relating to you can — you meant to leave me 
to guess and gather that a correspondence I once had the honour and 
felicity to enjoy is to be no more. Alas! what heavy-laden sounds are 




p 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




these — ^"No more!" The wretch who has never tasted pleasure has 
never known woe : what drives the soul to madness is the recollection of 
joys that are "no more!" But this is not language to the world : 
they do not understand it. But come, ye few — the children of feeling 
and' sentiment! — ye whose trembling bosom-chords ache to unutterable 
anguish as recollection gushes on the heart ! — ye who are capable of an 
attachment keen as the arrows of Death, and strong as the vigour of 
immortal being — come ! and your ears shall drink a tale — But hush! I 
must not, cannot, tell it; agony is in the recollection, and frenzy in the 
recital ! 

But, Madam, to leave the paths that lead to madness, I congratulate 
your friends on your return ; and I hope that the precious health, which 
Miss P. tells me is so much injured, is restored or restoring. . . . 

1 present you a book: may I hope you will accept it? I daresay you 
will have brought your books with you. The fourth vol. of the " Scots 
Songs" is published. {^Augusi, 1792.] I will presume to send it you. 
Shall I hear from you? But first hear me. No cold language — no 
prudential documents : I despise advice and scorn control. If you are not 
to write such language, such sentiments, as you know 1 shall wish, shall 
delight to receive, I conjure you, by wounded pride, by ruined peace, by 
frantic disappointed passion, by all the many ills that constitute that sum 
of human woes, a broken heart ! ! ! to me be silent for ever. . . . R. B. 



No. CCLXIV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

id March, 1793. 

Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I have not had time 
to write you farther. When I say that I had not time, that, as usual, 
means, that the three demons, indolence, business, and ennui, have so 
completelv shared my hours among them, as not to leave me a five 
minutes' fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank Heaven, I feel my spirits buoying upwards with the renovating 
year. Now I shall in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare say 
he thinks 1 have used him unkindly, and I must own with too much 
appearance of truth. Apropos, do you know the much-admired old High- 
land air called " The Sutorls Dochter " ? It is a first-rate favourite of mine, 
and I have written what I reckon one of my best songs to it. I will send 
it to you as it was sung with great applause in some fashionable circles by 
Major Robertson, of Lude, who was here with his corps. . . . 

There is one commission that I must trouble you with. I lately lost a 
valuable seal, a present from a departed friend, which vexes me much. 

I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, which I fancy would make 
a very decent one ; and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it ; will 
you be so obliging as inquire what will be the expense of such a business? 
i do not know that my name is matriculated, as the heralds call it, at all ; 
but I have invented arms for myself, — so you know I shall be chief of the 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



name ; and, by courtesy of Scotland, will likewise be entitled to supporters. 
These, however, I do not intend having on my seal. I am a bit of a 
herald, and shall give you, seamdiim artem, my arms. On a field azure 
a holly bush, seeded, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe and crook, saltier- 
wise, also proper, in chief. On a wreath of the colours a woodlark 
perching on a sprig of bay-tree, proper, for crest. Two mottoes : round 
the top of the crest, " Wood-notes wild " ; at the bottom of the shield, in 
the usual place, " Better a wee bush than nae bield." By the shepherd's 
pipe and crook I do not mean the nonsense of painters of Arcadia, but a 
" Stock and Horn," and a " Club," such as you see at the head of Allan 
Ramsay, in Allan's quarto edition of the " Gentle Shepherd." By the by, 
do you know Allan? He must be a man of very great genius. — Why is 
he not more known? Has he no patrons? or do "poverty's cold wind 
and crushing rain beat keen and heavy" on him? I once, and but once 
got a glance of that noble edition of the noblest pastoral in the world ; 
and dear as it was — I mean, dear as to my pocket — I would have bought 
it ; but 1 was told that it M'as printed and engraved for subscribers only. He 
is the only artist who has hit genuine pastoral costume. What, my 
clear Cunningham, is there in riches, that they narrow and harden the 
heart so? I think, that were I as rich as the sun, 1 should be as generous 
as the day; but as I have no reason to imagine my soul a nobler one than 
any other man's, I must conclude that wealth imparts a bird-lime quality 
to the possessor, at which the man, in his native poverty, would have 
revolted. What has led me to do this is the idea of such merit as Mr. 
Allan possesses, as such riches as a nabob or government contractor pos- 
sesses, and why they do not form a mutual league. Let wealth shelter and 
cherish unprotected merit, and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit will 
richly repay it. — R. B. 



No. CCLXV. 
TO MISS BENSON. 

AFTERWARDS MRS. BASIL MONTAGITE. 
Madam, Dumfries, iist March, 1793. 

Among many things for which I envy those hale, long-lived old 
fellows before the Flood, is this in particular, that when they met with 
anybody after their own heart, they had a charming long prospect of many, 
many happy meetings with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormy, winter day of our fleeting existence, when 
you now and then, in the chapter of accidents, meet an individual whose 
acquaintance is a real acquisition, there are all the probabilities against 
you, that you shall never meet with that valued character more. On the 
other hand, brief as this miserable being is, it is none of the least of the 
miseries belonging to it, that if there is any miscreant whom you hate, or 
creature whom 30U despise, the ill run of the chances shall be so against 
you, that in the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings of life, pop, at some 





THE LE r TERS OF B URNS. 523 

unlucky corner, eternally comes the wretch upon you, and will not aHow 
your indignation or contempt a moment's repose. As I am a sturdy 
believer in the powers of darkness, I take these to be the doings of that 
old author of mischief, the Devil. It is well known that he has some kind 
of shorthand.way of taking down our thoughts, and I make no doubt that 
he is perfectly acquainted with my sentiments respecting Miss Benson : 
how much I admired her abilities and valued her worth, and how very 
fortunate I thought myself in her acquaintance. For this last reason, my 
dear Madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very great pleasure of 
meeting with you again. 

Miss Hamilton tells me that she is sending a packet to you, and I beg 
leave to send you the enclosed sonnet ; though, to tell you the real truth, 
the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have the opportunity of declaring 
with how much respectful esteem I have the honour to be, &c. — R. B. 



No. CCLXVI. 
TO PATRICK MILLER, ESQ., 

OF DA.LSWINTON. 
Sir, Dumfries, ^/r??, 1793. 

My poems having just come out in another edition, will you do me 
the honour to accept of a copy? A mark of my gratitude to you, as a 
gentleman to whose goodness I have been much indebted ; of my respect 
for you, as a patriot who, in a venal, sliding age, stands forth the champion 
of the liberties of my country ; and of my veneration for you, as a man 
whose benevolence of heart does honour to human nature. 

There ivas a time. Sir, when I was your dependent : ^ this language then 
would have been like the vile incense of flattery — I could not have used 
it. Now that connexion is at an end, do me the honour to accept of this 
nonest tribute of respect from. Sir, 

Your much-indebted humble Servant, 

R. B. 



No. CCLXVII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

■]th April, 1793. 

Th4J^k you, my dear Sir, for your packet. You cannot imagine how 
much this business of composing for your publication has added to my 
enjoyments. What with my early attachment to ballads, your book, &c., 
ballad-making is now as completely my hobby-horse as ever fortification 
was Uncle Toby's ; so I'll e'en canter it away till I come to the limit of my 
race, (God grant that I may take the right side of the winning-post!), 
and then, cheerfully looking back on the honest folks with whom I have 

' This was when he held ths farm of Ellisland as tenant to Mr. Miller. 



^ 




-hi 



524 7V/£ LETTERS OF BURNS. 

been happy, I shall say or sing, " Sae merry as we a'' hae been," and 
raising my last looks to the whole human race, the last words of the voice 
of Colla shall be " Good night, and joy be wi' you a' ! " So much for my 
last words : now for a few present remarks, as they have occurred at 
random on looking over your list. 

The first lines of "The last time I came o'er the moor," and several 
other lines in it, are beautiful; but, in my opinion — pardon nie, revered 
shade of Ramsay ! — the song is vmworthy of the divine air. I shall try 
to make or mend. " For ever. Fortune, wilt thou prove," is a charming 
song ; but ' ' Logan Burn and Logan Braes " are sweetly susceptible of 
rural imagery: I'll try that likewise, and, if I succeed, the other song may 
class among the English ones. I remember the two last lines of a verse 
in some of the old songs of " Logan Water," (for I know a good many 
different ones), which I think pretty: — 

" Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes." 

" My Patie is a Lover gay " is unequal. "His mind is never muddy," 
is a muddy expression indeed. 

" Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony ! " 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or your book. My song, " Rigs 
of Barley," to the same tune, does not altogether please me ; but if I can 
mend it and thresh a few loose sentiments out of it, I will submit it to 
your consideration. "The Lass o' Patie's Mill" is one of Ramsay's best 
songs ; but there is one loose sentiment in it which my much-valued friend 
Mr. Erskine will take into his critical consideration. In Sir J. Sinclair's 
statistical volumes are two claims — one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and 
the other from Ayrshire — for the honour of this song. The following 
anecdote, which I had from the present Sir William Cunningham ot 
Robertland, who had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can, on such 
authorities, believe : — 

Allan Ramsay was residing at Loudon Castle with the then Earl, father 
to Earl John ; and one forenoon, riding or walking out together, his 
lordship and Allan passed a sweet, romantic spot on Irwine Water, still 
called " Patie's Mill," where a bonie lass was " tedding hay, bare-headed, 
on the green." My lord observed to Allan that it would be a fine theme 
for a song. Ramsay took the hint, and, lingering behind, he composed 
the first sketch of it, which he produced at dinner. 

"One Day I heard Mary say" is a fine song; but, for consistency's 
sake, alter the name " Adonis." Were there ever such banns published 
as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and Mary? I agree with you 
that my song, " There's nought but Care on every Hand," is much supe- 
rior to " Poortith cauld." The original song, " The Mill, Mill, O ! " though 
excellent, is, on account of delicacy, inadmissible ; still I like the title, and 
think a Scottish song would suit the notes best ; and let your chosen 
song, which is very pretty, follow as an English set. " The Banks of the 




THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 525 

Dee " is. you know, literally " Langolee,'" to slow time. The song is well 
enough, but has some false imagery in it ; for instance, 

" And sweetly the nightingale sung from the tree." 

In the first place, the nightingale sings in a low bush, but never from a 
tree ; and in the second place, there never was a nightingale seen, or 
heard on the banks of the Dee, or on the banks of any other river in 
Scotland. Exotic rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If I could 
hit on another stanza equal to " The small birds rejoice,"' &c., 1 do my- 
self honestly avow that I think it a superior song. '-John Anderson my 
Jo,"' the song to this tune in Johnson's '• Museum," is my composition, and I 
think it not my worst : if it suits you, take it and welcome. Your collec- 
tion of sentimental and pathetic songs is, in my opinion, very complete ; 
but not so your comic ones. Where are " TuUochgonmi,"' " Lumps o' 
Puddin',"' "Tibbie Fowler," and several others, which, in my humble 
judgment, are well worthy of preservation? There is also one sentimental 
song of mine in the '• Museum," which never was known out of the imme- 
diate neighbourhood until I got it taken down from a country girl's singing. 
It is called " Craigieburn Wood"; and, in the opinion of Mr. Clark, is 
one of the sweetest Scottish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about it; 
and I would take his taste in Scottish music against the taste of most 
connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five in your list, though they are 
certainly Irish. " Shepherds, I have lost my love !" is to me a heavenly 
air. What would you think of a set of Scottish verses to it? I have made 
one to it [" The Gowden Locks of Anna"] a good while ago, but in its 
original state it is not quite a lady's song. I enclose an altered, not 
amended, copy for you, if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the 
Irish verses follow. — R. B. 



No. CCLXVIIL 
TO JOHN FRANCIS ERSKINE, ESQ., 



[Mr. Erskine, afterwards Earl of Mar, had written to Mr. Riddel, offering to 
head a public subscription for Burns, under the impression that he had been dis- 
missed from the Excise for his political opinions.] 

Sir Dumfries, i^Jh April, 1793. 

Degenerate as human nature is said to be ; and. in many instances, 
worthless and unprincipled as it is ; still there are bright examples to the 
contrary — examples that even in the eyes of superior beings must shed a 
lustre on the name of Man. 

Such an example have I now before me, when you. Sir, came forward 
to patronise and befriend a distant obscure stranger, merely because 
poverty had made him helpless, and his British hardihood of mind had 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



provoked the arbitrary wantonness of power. My much-esteemed friend, 
Mr. Riddle of Glenriddel, has just read me a paragraph of a letter he had 
from you. Accept, Sir, of the silent throb of gratitude ; for words would 
but mock the emotions of my soul. 

You have been misinformed as to my final dismission from the Excise ; 
I am still in the service. Indeed, but for the exertions of a gentleman 
who must be known to you, Mr. Graham of Fintry, a gentleman who has 
ever been my warm and generous friend, I had, without so much as a 
hearing, or the slightest previous intimation, been turned adrift, with my 
helpless family, to all the horrors of want. Had I had any other re- 
source, probably I might have saved them the trouble of a dismission ; 
but the little money 1 gained by my publication is almost every guinea 
embarked to save from ruin an only brother, who, though one of the 
worthiest, is by no means one of the most fortunate, of men. 

In my defence to their accusations I said, that whatever might be my 
sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as to Britain I abjured the 
idea: that a constitution, which, in its original principles, experience 
had proved to be every way fitted for our happiness in society, it would be 
insanity to sacrifice to an untried visionary theory : that, in considera- 
tion of my being situated in a department, however humble, immediately 
in the hands of people in power, I had forborne taking any active part, 
either personally or as an author, in the present business of Reform : 
but that, where I must declare my sentiments, I would say there existed 
a system of corruption between the executive power and the representa- 
tive part of the Legislature, which boded no good to our glorious consti- 
tution, and which every patriotic Briton must wish to see amended. 
Some such sentiments as these I stated in a letter to my generous patron 
Mr. Graham, which he laid before the Board at large ; where, it seems, 
my last remark gave great offence ; and one of our supervisors general, a 
Mr. Corbet, was instnicted to inquire on the spot, and to document me — 
" that my business was to act, not to think ; and that whatever might be 
men or measures, it was for me to be silent and obedient.'''' 

Mr. Corbet was likewise my steady friend ; so, between Mr. Graham 
and him, I have been partly forgiven ; only I understand that all hopes of 
my getting officially forward are blasted. 

Now, Sir, to the business in which I would more immediately interest 
you. The partiality of my countrymen has brought me forward as a 
man of genius, and has given me a character to support. In the poet I 
have avowed manly and independent sentiments, which I tmst will be 
found in the man. Reasons of no less weight than the support of a wife 
and family have pointed out as the eligible, and, situated as I was, the only 
eligible line of life for me, my present occupation. Still my honest fame 
is m)- dearest concern ; and a thousand times have I trembled at the idea 
of those degi'ading epithets that malice or misrepresentation may afiix to 
my name. I have often, in blasting anticipation, listened to some future 
hackney scribbler, with the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exulting in 
his hireling paragraphs : " Burns, notwithstanding X\i^ fanfaronade of inde- 
pendence to be found in his works, and after having been held forth to 



^ 



THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 527 

public view and to public estimation as a man of some genius, yet, quite 
destitute of resources within himself to support his borrowed dignity, he 
dwindled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the rest of his insig- 
nificant existence in the meanest of pursuits, and among the vilest of 
mankind."' 

In your illustrious hands. Sir, permit me to lodge my disavowal and 
defiance of these slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man from 
birth, and an exciseman by necessity ; but — /w/// say it! — the sterling ol 
his honest worth no poverty could debase, and his independent British 
mind oppression might bend, but could not subdue. Have not I, to me, 
a more precious stake in my country's welfare than the richest dukedom 
in it? I have a large family of children, and the prospect of many more. 
I have three sons, who, I see already, have brought into the world souls 
ill qualified to inhabit the bodies of slaves. Can I look tamely on, and 
see any machination to wrest from them the birthright of my boys — the 
little independent Britons, in whose veins runs my own blood? No! I 
will not ! should my heart's blood stream around my attempt to defend it I 

Does any man tell me, that my full efforts can be of no service ; and 
that it does not belong to my humble station to meddle with the concern 
of a nation? 

1 can tell him, that it is on such individuals as I that a nation has to 
rest, both for the hand of support and the eye of intelligence. The unin- 
formed mob may swell a nation's bulk ; and the titled, tinsel, courtly 
throng may be its feathered ornament ; but the number of those who are 
elevated enough in life to reason and to reflect, yet low enough to keep 
clear of the venal contagion of a court — these are a nation's strength. 

1 know not how to apologize for the impertinent length of this epistle ; 
but one small request 1 must ask of you farther. — When you have honoured 
this letter with a perusal, please commit it to the flames. Burns, in 
whose behalf you have so generously interested yourself, I have here, in 
his native colours, drawn as he is; but should any of the people in whose 
hands is the very bread he eats get the least knowledge of the picture, it 
would riii>i the poor V)AKU forever ! 

My poems having just come out in another edition, I beg leave to 
piesent you with a copy as a small mark of that high esteem and ardent 
gratitude with which I have the honour to be, Sir, 
Your deeply indebted 

And ever devoted humble Servant, 
R. B. 



No. CCLXIX. 

TO THE EARL OF GLENCAIRN. 

Mv Lord, Way, 5794?] 

When you cast your eye on the name at the bottom of this letter, 

and on the title-page of the book [a new edition of the poems] I do myselt 

the honour to send your lordship, a more pleasurable feeling than my 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



vanity tells me that it must be a name not entirely unknown to you. The 
generous patronage of your late illustrious brother found me in the lowest 
obscurity : he introduced my rustic muse to the partiality of my country ; 
and to him I owe all. My sense of his goodness, and the anguish of my 
soul at losing my truly noble protector and friend, I have endeavoured tc 
express in a poem to his memory, which I have now published. This 
edition is just from the press ; and in my gratitude to the dead, and my 
respect for the living (fame belies you, my lord, if you possess not the 
same dignity of man which was your noble brother's characteristic 
feature), I had destined a copy for the Earl of Glencairn. I learnt just 
now that you are in town : — allow me to present it to you. 

1 know, my lord, such is the vile, venal contagion which pervades the 
world of letters, with professions of respect from an author, particularly 
from a poet, to a lord, are more than suspicious. 1 claim my by-past 
conduct, and my feelings at this moment, as exceptions to the too just con- 
clusion. Exalted as are the honours of your lordship's name, and unnoted 
as is the obscurity of mine, with the uprightness of an honest man I come 
before your lordship, with an offering — however humble, 'tis all I have to 
give — of my grateful respect ; and to beg of you, my lord — 'tis all I have 
to ask of you — that you will do me the honour to accept of it. 

I have the honour to be, 

R. B. 



No. CCLXX. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

April, lygi. 

. . . Give me leave to criticise your taste in the only thing in which 
It is, in my opinion, reprehensible. You know I ought to know something 
of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, and point you are a complete 
judge ; but there is a quality more necessary than either in a song, and 
whi'ch is the very essence of a ballad ; I mean simplicity : now, if I mis- 
take not, this last feature you are a little apt to sacrifice to the foregoing. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been always equally happy in his 
pieces : still I cannot approve of taking such liberties with an author as 
Mr. W. proposes doing with " The last time I came o'er the moor." Let 
a poet, if he chooses, take up the idea of another, and work it into a piece 
of his own ; but to mangle the works of the poor bard whose tuneful 
tongue is now mute for ever, in the dark and narrow house — by Heaven. 
'twould be sacrilege ! I grant that Mr. W.'s version is an improvement ; 
but — 1 know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much — let him mend the song 
as the Highlander mended his gun: he gave it a new stock, a new lock, 
and a new barrel. 

1 do not, by this, object to leaving out improper stanzas, where that can 
be done without spoiling the whole. One stanza in " The Lass o' Patie's 
Mill" must be left out: the song will be nothing worse for it. I am 
not sure if we can take the same liberty with ' ' Corn Rigs are bonie " ■ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 529 

perhaps it might want the last stanza, and be the better for it. " Cauld 
Kail in Aberdeen " you must leave with me yet a while. I have vowed to 
have a song to that air, on the lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses, " Poortith cauld and restless love." At any rate, my other song, 
" Green grow the Rashes," will never suit. That song is current in Scot- 
land under the old title, and to the merry old tune of that name; which, 
of course, would mar the progress of your song to celebrity. Your book 
will be the standard of Scots songs for the future : let this idea ever keep 
your judgment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this country, to suit " Bonie 
Dundee." I send you also a ballad to the " Mill, Mill, O ! " 

" The last time I came o'er the moor" 1 would fain attempt to make a 
Scots song for, and let Ramsay's be the English set. You shall liear from 
me soon. When you go to London on this business, can you come by 
Dumfries? I have still several MS. Scots airs by me which I have picked 
up, mostly from the singing of country lasses. Tliey please me vastly ; 
but your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased with the very feature 
for which I like them. I call them simple; you would pronounce them 
silly. Do you know a fine air, called " Jackie Hume's Lament"? I have 
a song of considerable merit to that air, 1 '11 enclose you both the song 
and tune, as I had them ready to send to Johnson's " Museum." I send 
you likewise, to me, a beautiful little air, which I had taken down from 
viva voce. — Adieu ! — R. B. 

No. CCLXXL 
TO G. THOMSON. 

April, 1793. 

. . . One hint let me give you. Whatever Mr. Pleyel does, let him 
not alter one iota of the original Scottish airs — I mean in the song 
department — but let our national music preserve its native features. They 
are, I own, frequently wild and iireducible to the more modern rules ; but 
on that very eccentricity, perhaps, depends a great part of their eiTect. 

No. CCLXXII. 
TO MR ROBERT AINSLIE. 

April 26, 1793. 

I AM damnably out of humour, my dear Ainslie, and that is the reason 
why 1 take up the pen Xo you : 'tis the nearest way { probatum esf) to 
recover my spirits again. 

1 received your last, and was much entertained with it : but 1 will not 
at this time, nor at any other time, answer it. Answer a letter? I never 
could answer a letter in my life ! I have written many a letter in return 
for letters I have received; but then they were original matter — spurt- 
away! zig, here; zag, there; as if the devil that, my grannie (an old 
woman indeed) often told me, rode on will-o'-wisp, or in her more classic 
phrase, Spunkie. were looking over my elbow. — Happy thought that idea 




^' 





^ 



A 



530 



T//E LETTERS OF BURNS. 



has engendered in my head : Spunkie, thou shalt henceforth be my symbol, 
signature, and tutelary genius ! Like thee, hap-ste-and-lowp, here-awa- 
there-awa, higglety-pigglety, pell-mell, hither-and-yon, ram-stam, happy- 
go-lucky, up-tails-a'-by-the-light-o'-the-moon, has been, is, and shall be, 
my progress through the mosses and moors of this vile, bleak, barren 
wilderness of a life of ours. 

Come, then, my guardian spirit ! like thee, may I skip away, amusing 
myself by and at my own light : and if any opaque-souled lubber of mankind 
complain that my elfine, lambent, glimmerous wanderings have misled his 
stupid steps over precipices, or into bogs ; let the thick-headed Blunder- 
buss recollect, that he is not Spunkie ; that 

Spunkie's wanderings could not copied be: 
Amid these perils none durst walk but he. 

I have no doubt but scholarcraft may be caught, as a Scotsman catches 
the itch — by friction. How else can you account for it, that born block- 
heads, by mere dint of handling books, grow so wise that even they 
themselves are equally convinced of and surprised at their own parts ? 1 
once carried this philosophy to that degree, that in a knot of country folks 
who had a library amongst them, and who, to the honour of their good 
sense, made me factotum in the business, one of our members, — a little, 
wise-looking, squat, upright, jabbering body of a tailor, — I advised him, 
instead of turning over the leaves, to bind iJie book on his back. Johnnie 
took the hint ; and as our meetings were every fourth Saturday, and, 
Pricklouse having a good Scots mile to walk in coming, and, of course, 
another in returning. Bodkin was sure to lay his hand on some heavy 
quarto, or ponderous folio, with and under which, wrapt up in his grey 
plaid, he grew wise, as he grew weary, all the way home. He carried this 
so far, that an old musty Hebrew concordance, which he had in a present 
from a neighbouring priest, by mere dint of applying it, as doctors do a 
blistering plaster, between his shoulders. Stitch, in a dozen pilgrimages, 
acquired as much rational theology as the said priest had done by forty 
years' perusal of the pages. 

Tell me, and tell me truly, what you think of this theory. 

Yours, 

Spunkie. 



No. CCLXXIII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

[In a letter to Peter Hill about this time Burns also bewails the condition of the 
country: "O may the wrath and curse of all mankind haunt and harass these 
turl^ulent, unprincipled miscreants who have involved a people in this ruinous 
business ! "] 

June, 1793. 

When I tell you, my dear Sir, that a friend of mine, in whom I am 
much interested, has fallen a sacrifice to these accursed times, you will 
easily allow that it might unhinge me for doing any good among ballads. 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



531 



My own loss, as to pecuniary matters, is trifling : but the tota) ruin of a 
much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Pardon my seeming inattention to 
vour last commands. . . . 




No. CCLXXIV. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

June 9.-^h, 1793. 

Have you ever, my dear Sir, felt your bosom ready to burst with indig- 
nation on reading of those mighty villains who divide kingdom against 
kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay nations waste, out of the wantonness 
of ambition, or often from still more ignoble passions.'' In a mood of 
this kind to-day I recollected the air of " Logan Water," and it occurred 
to me that its querulous melody probably had its origin from the plaintive 
indignation of some swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic strides 
of sohie public destroyer, and overwhelmed with private distress, the con- 
sequence of a country's ruin. If I have done anything at all like justice 
to my feelings, the following song, composed in three-quarters of an hour's 
meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have some merit. 

[Here follows " Logan Water."] 



No. CCLXXV. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

[Mr. Thomson had sent Burns ^^5, as an instalment of remuneration for his songs.] 

July, 1793. 

1 ASSURE you. my dear Sir, that you tmly hurt me with your pecuniary 
parcel. It degrades me in my own eyes. However, to return it would 
sa\our of affectation ; but, as to any more traffic of that debtor and 
creditor kind, 1 swear, by that honour which crowns the upright statue 
of Robert Burns's integrity, on the least motion of it I will indig- 
nantly spurn the by-past transaction, and from that moment commence 
entire stranger to you ! Burns's character for generosity of sentiment 
and independence of mind will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, 
which the cold unfeeling ore can supply : at least, I will take care that such 
a character he shall deserve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. Never did my eyes 
behold in any musical work such elegance and correctness. Your preface, 
too, is admirably written ; only your partiality to me has made you say 
too much : however, it will bind me down to double every effort in the 
future progress of the work. The following are a few remarks on the 
songs in the list you sent me. I never copy what I write to you ; so I 
may be often tautological, or perhaps contradictory. 

"The Flowers o' the Forest" is charming as a poem, and should be, 




iti 



532 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



and must be, set to the notes ; but, though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas beginning, 

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 

are worthy of a place, were it but to immortalize the author of them, who 
is an old lady of my acquaintance, and at this moment living in Edin- 
burgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn ; I forget of what place ; but from 
Roxburghshire. What a charming apostrophe is — 

" O fickle Fortune, why this cruel sporting? 
Why, why torment us — poor sons of a day? " 

The old ballad, " I wish I were where Helen lies," is silly, to contempti- 
bility. My alteration of it, in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. Pinkerton, 
in his, what he calls, ancient ballads (many of them notorious, though 
beautiful enough, forgeries) has the best set.' It is full of his own inter- 
polations — but no matter. 

In my next I will suggest to your consideration a few songs which may 
have escaped your hurried notice. In the mean time allow me to con- 
gratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. You have committed your 
character and fame ; which will now be tried, for ages to come, by the 
illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters of Taste — all whom poesy 
can please, or music charm. 

Being a bard of Nature, I have some pretensions to second sight; and 
I am warranted by the spirit to foretell, and affirm, that your great-grand- 
child will hold up your volumes, and say with honest pride, "This so 
much admired selection was the work of my ancestor ! '" — R. B. 



No. CCLXXVI. 
TO MISS HELEN CRAIK, 

OF ARBIGLAND, 

Madam, Dumfries, August, 1793. 

I enclose you two of my late pieces, as some kind of return for 
the pleasure I have received in perusing a certain MS. volume of poems 
in the possession of Captain Riddel. To repay one with an old sonr/ is 
a proverb whose force you, Madam, I know will not allow. What is 
said of illustrious descent is, I believe, equally true of a talent for poetry — 
none ever despised it who had pretensions to it. The fates and characters 
of the rhyming tribe often employ my thoughts when I am disposed to be 
melancholy. There is not, among all the martyrologies that ever were 
penned, so rueful a narrative as the lives of the poets. In the comparative 
view of wretches, the criterion is not what they are doomed to suffer, but 
how they are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind ; give him a 
stronger imagination and a more delicate sensibility, which between them 
will ever engender a more ungovernable set of passioni than are the 
usual lot of man ; implant in him an irresistible impulse to some idle 
vagary, such as arranging wild flowers in fantastical nosegays, tracing the 



^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 533 



grasshopper to his haunt by his chirping song, watching the frislcs of the 
little minnows in the sunny pool, or hunting after the intrigues of butterflies 
in short, send him adrift after some pursuit which shall eternally mis- 
lead him from the paths of lucre, and yet curse him with a keener relish 
than any man living for the pleasures that lucre can purchase ; lastly, fill 
up the measure of his woes by bestowing on him a spurning sense of his 
own dignity ; and you have created a wight nearly as miserable as a poet. 
To you. Madam, I'need not recount the fairy pleasures the Muse bestows 
to counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Bewitching poetry is like be- 
witching woman ; she has in all ages been accused of misleading mankind 
from the councils of wisdom and the paths of prudence, involving them in 
difficulties, baiting them with poverty, branding them with infamy, and 
plunging them in the whirling vortex of ruin : yet where is the man but 
must own that all our happiness on earth is not worthy the name , that 
even the holy hermit's solitary prospect of paradisiacal bliss is but the 
glitter of a northern sun rising over a frozen region, compared with the 
many pleasures, the nameless raptures, that we owe to the lovely Queen of 
the heart of Man!— R. B. 

No. CCLXXVII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

I HAVE tried my hand on " Robin Adair," and, you will probably think, 
with little success ; but it is such a cursed, cramp, out-of-the-way measure, 
tnat I despair of doing anything better to it. 

[Here follow three stanzas of " Phillis the Fair." Page 184.] 

So much for namby-pamby. I may, after all, try my hand on it in Scots 
verse. There I always find myself most at home. 

1 have just put the last hand to the song I meant for " Cauld Kail in 
Aberdeen." If it suits you to insert it, I shall be pleased, as the heroine 
is a favourite of mine: if not, I shall also be pleased; because I wish, 
and will be glad, to see you act decidedly on the business. 'Tis a tribute 
as a man of taste, and as an editor, which you owe yourself. 

No. CCLXXVHI. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That crinkum-crankum tune, " Robin Adair," has mn so in my head, 
and I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this 
morning's walk, one essay m.ore. 

[" Had I a Cave." Page 185.] 

By the way, I have met with a musical Highlander, in Breadalbane's 
Fencibles, which are quartered here, who assures me that he well re- 
members his mother's singing Gaelic songs to both •' Robin Adair" and 




-ti 



534 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



" Gramachree." They certainly have more of the Scotch than Irish taste 
in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inverness ; so it could not be any 
intercourse with Ireland that could bring them ; — except, what I shrewdly 
suspect to be the case, the wandering minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used 
to go frequently errant through the wilds of both of Scotland and Ireland, 
and so some favourite airs might be common to both. A case in point. — 
They have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish air, as they say, called 
" Caun du delish." The fact is, in a publication of Corri's, a great while 
ago, you will find the same air called a Highland one, with a Gaelic song 
set to it. Its name there, I think, is " Oran Gaoil," and a fine air it is. 
Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic Parson, about these matters. 

No. CCLXXIX. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That tune, • Cauld Kail," is such a favourite of yours, that I once more 
roved out yesterday lor a gloamin-shot at the Muses ; when the Muse that 
presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather my old inspiring dearest nymph, 
Coila, whispered me the following. I have two reasons for thinking that 
it was my early, sweet, simple inspirer that was by my elbow, "smooth 

fliding without step," and pouring the song on my glowing fancy. In the 
rst place, since I left Collars native haunts, not a fragment of a poet has 
arisen to cheer her solitary musings, by catching inspiration from her ; so 
I more than suspect that she has followed me hither, or at least makes me 
occasional visits : secondly, the last stanza of this song I send you is the 
very words that Coila taught me many years ago, and which I set to an 
old Scots reel in Johnson''s "Museum." 

["Come, let me take thee to my breast."] 

If you think the above will suit your idea of your favourite air, I shall be 
highly pleased. " The last time I came o'er the moor " I cannot meddle 
with as to mending it ; and the musical world have been so long accustomed 
to Ramsay's words, that a different song, though positively superior, would 
not be so well received. I am not fond of choruses to songs, so I have 
not made one for the foregoing. 

No. CCLXXX. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

Sept., 1793. 

You know that my pretensions to musical taste are merely a few of 
nature's instincts, untaught and untutored by art. For this reason man\- 
musical compositions, particularly where much of the merit lies in coun- 
terpoint, however they may transport and ravish the ears of you connois- 
seurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise then merely as melodious din. 
On the other hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with many little 
melodies, which the learned musician despises as silly and insipid. I do 




THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 535 

not know whether the old air, " Hey, tuttie taitie," may rank among this 
number ; but well I know that, with Eraser's hautboy, it has often filled 
my eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which 1 have met with in many 
places of Scotland, that it was Robert Bruce"s march at the battle of 
Bannockburn. This thought, in my solitary wanderings, warmed me to 
a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme of liberty and independence, which 1 
threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted to the air, that one might suppose 
to be the gallant Royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on that 
eventful morning. 

[" Scots, wha hae \vi' Wallace bled."] ' 

So may God ever defend the cause of truth and liberty, as He did that 
day! — Amen. 

P. S. I showed the air to Urbani, who was highly pleased with it, and 
begged me to make soft verses for it : but I had no idea of giving myself 
any trouble on the subject, till the accidental recollection of that glorious 
struggle for freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of some other 
struggles of the same nature, not quite so ancient, roused my rhyming 
mania. Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will find in the 
" Museum " ; though I am afraid that the air is not what will entitle it to a 
place in your elegant selection. 

No. CCLXXXI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Sept., 1793. 

I DARESAY, my dear Sir, that you will begin to think my correspondence 
is persecution. No matter, 1 can't help it ; a ballad is my hobby-horse, 
which, though otherwise a simple sort of harmless idiotical beast enough, 
has yet this blessed headstrong property, that when once it has fairly 
made off with a hapless wight, it gets so enamoured with the tinkle-gingle, 
tinkle-gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run poor pilgarlick,"the 
bedlam jockey, quite beyond any useful point or post in the common race 
of man. 

The following song I have composed for " Gran Gaoil," the Highland 
air, that, you tell me in your last, you have resolved to give a place to in 
your book. I have this moment finished the song, so you have it glowing 
from the mint. If it suit you, well ! — If not, 'tis also well ! 

[" Behold the Hour."] 

No. CCLXXXII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

" Laddie, lie near me,'' must lie by me for some time. I do not know 
the air; and until I am complete master of a tune, in my own singing 

' It is related that Burns composed this noble song under the influence of a storm of rain and 
lightning among the wilds of Glenken in Galloway. 




tifc 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



(such as it is), I can never compose for it. My way is : I consider the 
poetic sentiment correspondent to my idea of the musical expression ; then 
choose my theme ; begin one stanza ; when that is composed, which is 
generally the most difficult part of the business, I walk out, sit down now 
and then, look out for objects in nature round me that are in unison or 
harmony with the cogitations of my fancy and workings of my bosom ; 
humming every now and then the air, with the verses I have framed. 
When I feel my muse beginning to jade, I retire to the solitary fireside of 
my study, and there commit my effusions to paper ; swinging, at intervals, 
on the hind-legs of my elbow-chair, by way of calling forth my own critical 
strictures, as my pen goes on. Seriously, this, at home, is almost invariably 
my way. 

What cursed egotism ! 

Blythe hae I been o'er the hill " is one of the finest songs I ever made 
and, besides, is composed on a young lady, positively the most 
beautiful, lovely woman in the world. As I purpose giving you the names 
and designations of all my heroines, to appear in some future edition of 
your work, perhaps half a century hence, you must certainly include " The 
boniest lass in a' the warld " in your collection. 

" Saw ye my Father?" is one of my greatest favourites. The evening 
before last I wandered out, and began a tender song, in what I think is 
its native style. I must premise that the old way, and the way to give 
most effect, is to have no starting-note, as the fiddlers call it, but to burst 
at once into the pathos. Every country girl sings " Saw ye my Father? " 
&c. ... 

One song more and I have done — " Auld Lang Syne." The air is but 
mediocre ; but the following song, the old song of the olden times, and 
which has never been in print, nor even in manuscript, until I took it down 
from an old man's singing, is enough to recommend any air : — 



"Blythe 
in my life ; 




[Here follows " Auld Lang Syne," of which Allan Cunningham attributes the 
second, third, and fourth verses to Burns.] 

Now, I suppose, I have tired your patience fairly. You must, after all 
is. over, have a number of ballads, properly so called. "Gil Morice," 
" Tranent Muir," " Macpherson"s Farewell," " Battle of Sheriff-Muir," or, 
" We ran and they ran " (I know the author of this charming ballad, and 
his history), " Hardiknute," "Barbara Allan" (I can furnish a finer set 
of this tune than any that has yet appeared) ; and, besides, do you know 
that I really have the old tune to which " The Chen-y and the Slae " was 
sung, and which is mentioned as a well-known air in " Scotland's Com- 
plaint," a book published before poor Mary's days. It was then called 
"The Banks o' Helicon," an old poem which Pinkerton has brought to 
light. You will see all this in Tytler's " History of Scottish Music.'" The 
tune, to a learned ear, may have no great merit ; but it is a great curiosit\-. 
I have a good many original things of this kind. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 537 

No. CCLXXXIII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 

" Who shall decide when doctors disagree? " My ode " Bannoclcburn " 
pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. . . . 

I have finished my song to " Saw ye my Father?" and in English, as 
you will see. That there is a syllable too much for the expression of the 
air, it is true ; but allow me to say, that the mere dividing of a dotted 
crotchet into a crotchet and a quaver is not a great matter : however, in 
that I have no pretensions to cope in judgment with you. Of the poetry 
I speak with confidence ; but the music is a business where I hint my 
ideas with the utmost dilfidence. 

No. CCLXXXIV. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

. . . Your Irish airs are pretty, but they are downright Irish. If they 
were like the "Banks of Banna," for instance, though really Irish, yet in 
the Scottish taste, you might adopt them. Since you are so fond of Irish 
music, what say you to twenty-five of them in an additional number? We 
could easily find this cjuantity of charming airs; I will take care that you 
shall not want songs : and I assure you that you would find it the most 
saleable of the whole. If you do not approve of "' Roy's Wife," for the 
music's sake, we shall not insert it. " Deil tak the Wars" is a charming 
song ; so is " Saw ye my Peggy ? " " There's nae Luck about the House " 
well deserves a place. I cannot say that "O'er the hills and far awa " 
strikes me as equal to your selection. "This is no my ain House" is a 
great favourite air of mine ; and if you will send me your set of it, I will 
task my muse to her highest effort. What is your opinion of " I hae laid a 
Herrin' in Sawt " ? I like it much. Your Jacobite airs are pretty : and there 
are many others of the same kind, pretty ; but you have not room for 
them. You cannot, I think, insert " Fye, let's a' to the Bridal," to any 
other words than its own. 

What pleases me as simple and naive, disgusts you as ludicrous arid 
low. For this reason "Fye, gie me my coggie. Sirs," "Fye, let's a' to 
the Bridal," with several others of that cast, are. to me, highly pleasing; 
while " Saw thee my Father, or saw ye my Mother? " delights me with its 
descriptive simple pathos. Thus my song, " Ken ye what Aleg o' the Mill 
has gotten? " pleases myself so much, that 1 cannot try my hand at another 
song to the air ; so I shall not attempt it. I know you will laugh at ail 
this ; but like " Ilka man wears his belt his ain gait." 

No. CCLXXXV. 

TO JOHN McMURDO, ESQ. 

Sir, Dumfries, December, 1793. 

It is said that we take the greatest liberties with our greatest 
friends, and I pay myself a very high compliment in the manner in which 





m 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



I am going to apply the remark. I have owed you money longer than 
ever 1 owed it to any man. Here is Ker's account, and here are six 
guineas; and now I don't owe a shilling to man — or woman either. But 
for these damned dirty, dog's-ear'd little pages [Scottish banknotes], I 
had done myself the honour to have waited on you long ago. Inde- 
pendent of the obligations your hospitality has laid me under, the con- 
sciousness of your superiority in the rank of man and gentleman of itself 
was fully as much as I could ever make head against; but to owe you 
money too was more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a collection of Scots songs I 
have for some years been making : I send you a peru.sal of what I have 
got together. I could not conveniently spare them above five or six days, 
and five or six glances of them will probably more than suffice you. A 
very few of them are my own. When you are tired of them, please leave 
them with Mr. Clint, of the King's Arms. There is not another copy of 
the collection in the world ; and I should be sorry that any unfortunate 
negligence should deprive me of what has cost me a good deal of pains. 

R. B. 

No. CCLXXXVI. 

TO CAPTAIN [ROBERTSON OF LUDE?]. 

Sir, Dumfries, 5M December, 1793. 

Heated as I was with wine yesternight, I was perhaps rather seem- 
ingly impertinent in my anxious wish to be honoured with your acquaint- 
ance. You will forgive it: it was the impulse of heart-felt respect. " He 
is the father of the Scottish country reform, and is a man who does 
honour to the business at the same time that the business does honour to 
him," said my worthy friend Glenriddel to somebody by me who was 
talking of your coming to this country with your corps. "Then." I 
said, " I have a woman's longing to take him by the hand, and say to him, 
' Sir, I honour you as a man to whom the interests of humanity are dear, 
and as a patriot to whom the rights of your country are sacred."" 

In times like these. Sir, when our commoners are barely able by the 
glimmer of their own twilight understandings to scrawl a frank, and 
when lords are what gentlemen would be ashamed to be. to whom shall a 
sinking country call for help? To the independent country gentleman! 
To him who has too deep a stake in his country not to be in earnest for 
her welfare, and who in the honest pride of man can view with equal 
contempt the insolence of office and the allurements of corruption. 

I mentioned to you a Scots ode or song I had lately composed, and 
which I think has some merit. Allow me to enclose it. When I fall in 
with you at the theatre, I shall be glad to have your opinion of it. Accept 
of it, Sir, as a very humble but most sincere tribute of respect from a man 
who, dear as he prizes poetic fame, yet holds dearer an independent mind. 

I have the honour to be, 

R. B. 



%, 



7=1- 




# 



THE LET TERS OF B URNS. 539 



No. CCLXXXVII. 
TO THE EARL OF BUCHAN, 

WITH A COPY OF BRUCE'S ADDRESS TO HIS TROOPS AT BANNOCKBURN. 
jVIY Lord, Dumfries, 11th January^ i794- 

Will your lordship allow me to present you with the enclosed little 
composition of mine, as a small tribute of gratitude for the acquaintance 
with which you have been pleased to honour me. Independent of my 
enthusiasm as a Scotsman, I have rarely met with anything in history 
which interests my feelings as a man equal with the story of Bannock- 
burn. On the one hand, a cruel but able usurper, leading on the finest 
army in Europe to extinguish the last spark of freedom among a greatly 
daring and greatly injured people ; on the other hand, the desperate 
relics of a gallant nation devoting themselves to rescue their bleeding 
country, or perish with her. 

Liberty ! thou art a prize truly and indeed invaluable ; for never canst 
thou be too dearly bought ! — R. B. 



No. CCLXXXVIII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Burns's repugnance to officers of the army was probably clue in some measure 
to his hostility to the political cause with which he identified them.] 

Dear Madam, 

I meant to have called on you yesternight, but as I edged up to 
your box-door, the first object which greeted my view was one of those 
lobster-coated puppies, sitting like another dragon, guarding the Hesperian 
fruit. On the conditions and capitulations you so obligingly offer, I shall 
certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz a part of your box-furniture 
on Tuesday; when we may arrange the business of the visit. 

Among the profusion of idle compliments which insidious craft, or un- 
meaning folly, incessantly offer at your shrine — a shrine, how far exalted 
above such adoration! — permit me, were it but for rarity's sake, to pay 
you the honest tribute of a warm heart and an independent mind ; and to 
assure you that I am, thou most amiable and most accomplished of thy sex, 
with the most respectful esteem and fervent regard, thine, &c. 

R. B. 




-h^. 



^ 



I 540 



T//£ LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CCLXXXIX. 
TO MR. SAMUEL CLARKE, JUN., 

DUMFRIES. 

[At a supper-table Burns proposed the toast, " May our success in the present 
war be equal to the justice of our cause," which was resented by an officer present 
as a reflection on the Government and the army. Next morning Burns wrote this 
note.] 

Dear Sir. Simday Muming. 

I was, I know, drunk last night, but I am sober this morning. 

From the expressions Capt. made use of to me, had I had nobody's 

welfare to care for but my own, we should certainly have come, according 
to the manners of the world, to the necessity of murdering one another 
about the business. The words were such as generally, I believe, end in 
a brace of pistols ; but I am still pleased to think that I did not ruin the 
peace and welfare of a wife and family of children in a drunken squabble. 
Farther, you know that the report of certain political opinions being mine 
has already once before brought me to the brink of destruction. I dread 
lest last night's business may be misrepresented in the same way. You, I beg, 
will take care to prevent it. I tax your wish for Mr. Burns's welfare with 
the task of waiting as soon as possible on every gentleman who was present, 
and state this to him, and, as you please, show him this letter. What, 
after all, was the obnoxious toast? " May our success in the present war 
be equal to tJie justice of our cause " — a toast that the most outrageous 
frenzy of loyalty cannot object to. I request and beg that this morning 
you will wait on the parties present at the foolish dispute. I shall only 
add, that I am truly sorry that a man who stood so high in my estima- 
tion as Mr. should use me in the manner in which I conceive he has 

done. — R B. 



No. CCXC. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[Burns's intimacy with the Riddels was interrupted about this time in conse- 
quence of the Poet's rough behaviour to the lady after a bout of hard drinking at 
the dinner-table. The following letter of apology is supposed to be written from 
the Dead to the Living.] 

Madam, 

I daresay that this is the first epistle you ever received froin this 
nether world. I write you from the regions of hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my leaving your earth I do not 
exactly know, as I took my departure in the heat of a fever of intoxication, 
contracted at your too hospitable mansion ; but, on my arrival here, I was 
fairly tried, and sentenced to endure the purgatorial tortures of this 



'fe 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



541 



infernal confine for the space of ninety-nine years, eleven months, and 
twenty-nine days, and all on account of the impropriety of my conduct 
yesternight under your roof. Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, 
with my aching head reclined on a pillow of ever-piercing thorn, while 
an infernal tormentor, wrinkled, and old, and cruel — his name I think is 
Recollection — with a whip of scorpions, forbids peace or rest to approach 
me, and keeps anguish eternally awake. Still, Madam, if I could in any 
measure be reinstated in the good opinion of the fair circle whom my 
conduct last night so much injured, 1 think it would be an alleviation to 
my torments. For this reason I trouble you with this letter. To the men 
of the company 1 will make no apology. Your husband, who insisted on 
my drinking more than 1 chose, has no right to blame me; and the other 
gentlemen were partakers of my guilt. But to you. Madam, I have much 
to apologize. Your good opinion I valued as one of the greatest acquisi- 
tions I had made on earth, and I was truly a beast to forfeit it. There 

was a Miss I too, a woman of fine sense, gentle and unassuming 

manners — do make, on my part, a miserable d-mned wretch's best apology 
to her. A Mrs. G , a charming woman, did me the honour to be pre- 
judiced in my fai^our; this makes me hope that I have not outraged her 
beyond all forgiveness. To all the other ladies please present my humblest 
contrition for my conduct, and my petition for their gracious pardon. 
O all ye powers of decency and deconmi ! whisper to them that my errors, 
though great, were involuntary — that an intoxicated man is the vilest of 
beasts — that it was not in my nature to be brutal to any one — that to be 
rude to a woman, when in my senses, was impossible with me — but — 

Regret ! Remorse ! Shame ! ye three hellhounds that ever dog my steps 
and bay at my heels, spare me ! spare me ! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of. Madam, 

Your humble Slave, 

R. B. 

No. CCXCI. 



TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Madam, 

I return your common-place book. I have perused it with mucl) 
pleasure, and would have continued my criticisms ; but as it seems the 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures must lose their value. 

li it is true that " offences come only from the heart," before you 1 am 
guiltless. To admire, esteem, and prize you as the most accomplished of 
women and the first of friends — if these are crimes, I am the most offend- 
ing thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind complacency of friendly confi- 
dence, now to find cold neglect and contemptuous scorn, is a wrench that 
my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some kind of miserable good luck, 
that while de-haut-en-bas rigour may depress an unoffending wretch to the 
ground, it has a tendency to rouse a stubborn something in his bosom. 




542 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



which, though it cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an opiate 
to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abilities ; the most sincere esteem, 
and ardent regard, for your gentle heart and amiable manners ; and the 
most fervent wish and prayer for your welfare, peace, and bliss, I have the 
honour to be, Madam, 

Your most devoted humble Servant, 

R. B. 

No. CCXCII. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

[In spite of Burns's rather abject pleadings the breach of friendship was not 
repaired. The lampoons on Mrs. Riddel, in which Burns vented his anger, cast a 
dark shadow on this part of his life.] 

I HAVE this moment got the song from Syme, and I am sorry to see that 
he has spoilt it a good deal. It shall be a lesson to me how I lend him 
anything again. 

I have sent you " Werter," truly happy to have any the smallest oppor- 
tunity of obliging you. 

'Tis true. Madam, I saw you once since I was at Woodlea ; and that 
once froze the very life-blood of my heart. Your reception of me was such, 
that a wretch meeting the eye of his judge, about to pronounce sentence 
of death on him, could only have envied my feelings and situation. But 
I hate the theme, and never more shall write or speak on it. 

One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay Mrs. R. a higher tribute 
of esteem, and appreciate her amiable worth more truly, than any man 
whom I have seen approach her. — R. B. 

No. CCXCIII. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

["They," says Mr. Lockhart, "who have been told that Burns was ever a 
degraded being, who have permitted themselves to believe that his only consola- 
tions were those of ' the opiate guilt applies to grief,' will do well to pause o^'er 
this noble letter and judge for themselves."] 

25M February, 1794. 

Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst thou speak peace and 
rest to a soul tost on a sea of troubles, without one friendly star to guide 
her course, and dreading that the next surge may overwhelm her? Canst 
thou give to a frame, tremblingly alive as the tortures of suspense, the 
stability and hardihood of the rock that braves_ the blast ? If thou canst 
not do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb me in my miseries, 
with thy inquiries after me? . . . 

For these two months I have not been able to lift a pen. My constitu- 
tion and frame were, ab origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 543 

hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of late a number of domestic 
vexations, and some pecuniary share in the ruin of these cursed times — 
losses which, though trifling, were yet what I could ill bear — have so irri- 
tated me, that my feelings at times could only be envied by a reprobate 
spirit listening to the sentence that dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consolation? I have exhausted in 
reflection every topic of comfort. A heart at ease would have been 
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings ; but as to myself, I was like 
Judas Iscariot preaching the Gospel : he might melt and mould the hearts 
of those around him, but his own kept its native incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us up, amid the wreck of mis- 
fortune and miser)-. The one is composed of the different modifications 
of a certain noble, stubborn something in man, known by the names of 
courage, fortitude, magnanimity. The other is made up of those feel- 
ings and sentiments which, however the sceptic may deny them or the 
enthusiast disfigure them, are yet, I am convinced, original and com- 
ponent parts of the human soul ; those senses of the tniiui, if I may be 
allowed the expression, which connect us with, and link us to, those awful 
obscure realities — an all-powerful and equally beneficent God, and a 
world to come, beyond death and the grave. The first gives the nerve of 
combat, while a ray of hope beams on the field : the last pours the balm 
of comfort into the wound which time can never cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, that you and I ever talked 
on the subject of religion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as the 
trick of the crafty few, to lead the undiscerning many ; or at most as an 
uncertain obscurity, which mankind can never know anything of, and 
with which they are fools if they give themselves much to do. Nor would 
I quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more than I would for his 
want of musical ear. I would regret that he was shut out trom what, to 
me and to others, were such superlative sources of enjoyment. It is in 
this point of view, and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the mind 
of every child of mine with religion. If my son should happen to be a 
man of feeling, sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to his enjoy- 
ments. Let me flatter myself that this sweet little fellow, who is just now 
running about my desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing heart, 
and an imagination delighted with the painter and rapt with the poet. 
Let me figure him wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale the balmy 
gales, and enjoy the growing luxuriance of the spring ; himself the while 
in the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on all nature, and through 
nature up to nature's God. His soul, by swift delighting degrees, is rapt 
above this sublunary sphere, until he can be silent no longer, and bursts 
out into the glorious enthusiasm of Thomson — 

"These, as they change, Almighty Father, these 
Are but the varied God. — The rolling year 
Is full of Thee:" 

and so on in all the spirit and ardour of that charming hymn. These are 
no ideal pleasures, they are real delights ; and I ask, what of the delights 
among the sons of men are superior, not to say equal, to them ? And they 



544 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

have this precious, vast addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for 
her own, and lays liold on them to bring herself into the presence of a 
vi^itnessing, judging, and approving God. — R. B. 



No. CCXCIV. 

TO MISS LAWRIE. 

[When Capt. Riddel died, in April, 1794, no reconciliation had taken place 
between him and Burns; but the latter, recollecting only the kindness he had 
received at Carse, wrote a sonnet (the only verses he composed during the first half 
of 1794) on the death of his former friend, which was published in a local paper. 
The following letter was addressed to Mrs. Riddel's sister in order to procure the 
return of some manuscript pieces which had been lent to Capt. Riddel, but which, 
for various reasons, Burns was very anxious should be suppressed.] 

Madam, Dumfries, 1794. 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity could have made me 
trouble you with this letter. Except my ardent and just esteem for your 
sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising in my breast, as I put 
pen to paper to you, is painful. The scenes I have passed with the friend 
of my soul and his amiable connexions ! the wrench at my heart to think 
that he is gone, for ever gone from me, never more to meet in the wander- 
ings of a weary world I and the cutting reflection of all, that I had most 
unfortunately, though most undeservedly, lost the confidence of that soul 
of worth, ere it took its flight! 

These, Madam, are sensations of no ordinary anguish. However, you 
also may be offended with some imputed improprieties of mine : sensibility 
you know I possess, and sincerity none will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been raised against me is not 
the business of this letter. Indeed it is a warfare I know not how to 
wage. The powers of positive vice I can in some degree calculate, and 
against direct malevolence I can be on my guard ; but who can estimate 
the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off the unthinking mischief of 
precipitate folly ? 

I have a favour to request of you. Madam ; and of your sister Mrs. Riddel, 
through your means. You know that, at the wish of my late friend, I 
made a collection of all my trifles in verse which I had ever written. The}- 
are many of them local, some of them puerile and silly, and all of them 
unfit for the public eye. As I have some little fame at stake ^ — a fame that 
I trust may live when the hate of those who " watch for my halting," and 
the contumelious sneer of those whom accident has made my superiors, 
will, with themselves, be gone to the regions of oblivion — I am uneasy now 
for the fate of those manuscripts. Will Mrs. Riddel have the goodness 
to destroy them, or return them to me? As a pledge of friendship they 
were bestowed ; and that circumstance indeed was all their merit. 
Most unhappily for me, that merit they no longer possess: and I hope 
that Mrs. Riddel's goodness, which I well know, and ever will revere, will 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



545 



not refuse this favour to a man whom she once held in some degree of 
estimation. 

With the sincerest esteem, I have the honour to be, Madam, &c. 

R. B. 

No. CCXCV. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Castle Douglas, 25M June, 1794. 

Here in a solitary inn, in a solitary village, am I set by myself, to amuse 
my brooding fancy as I may. Solitary confinement, you know, is Howard's 
favourite idea of reclaiming sinners ; so let me consider by what fatality 
it happens that I have so long been exceeding sinful as to neglect the 
correspondence of the most valued friend I have on earth. To tell you 
that I have been in poor health will not be excuse enough, though it is 
true. I am afraid that I am about to suffer for the follies of my youth. 
My medical friends threaten me with a flying gout ; but I tmst they are 
mistaken. 

I am just going to trouble your critical patience with the first sketch of 
a stanza I have been framing as I passed along the road. The subject is 
Liberty : you know, my honoured friend, how dear the theme is to me. I 
design it an irregular ode for General Washington's birthday. After 
having mentioned the degeneracy of other kingdoms I come to Scotland 
thus : — 

" Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among. 
Thee, lamed for martial deed and sacred song. 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes; 
Where is that soul of freedom fled? 
Immingled with the mighty dead. 

Beneath the hallowed turf where Wallace lies! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death : 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ; 

Disturb ye not the hero's sleep. 

With the additions of — 

" Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Braved usurpation's boldest daring; 
That arm which, nerved with thundering fate, 

Crushed the despot's proudest bearing! 
One quenched in darkness like the sinking star, 

And one the palsied arm of tottering, powerless age." 

You vrill probably have another scrawl from me in a stage or two. 

R. B. 



TO 



No. CCXCVI. 
MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 



My dear Friend, Dumfries, 1794. 

You should have heard from me long ago ; but, over and above 
some vexatious share in the pecuniary losses of these accursed times', I 



^ 



b 



# 



^ 546 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

have all this winter been plagued with low spirits and blue devils, so tliat 
/ liave almost hung my liarp on tJie willow trees. 

I am just now busy correcting a new edition of my poems; and this, 
with my ordinary business, finds me in full employment. 

I send you by my friend Mr. Wallace forty-one songs for your fifth 
volume ; if we cannot finish it any other way, what would you think of 
Scots words to some beautiful Irish airs? In the mean time, at your 
leisure, give a copy of the " Museum " to my worthy friend Mr. Peter 
Hill, bookseller, to bind for me, interleaved with blank leaves, exactly as 
he did the Laird of GlenriddePs, that I may insert every anecdote I can 
learn, together with my own criticisms and remarks on the songs. A copy 
of this kind I shall leave with you, the editor, to publish at some after 
period, by way of making the " Museum" a book famous to the end of 
time, and you renowned for ever. — R. B. 



No. CCXCVII. 
TO CLARINDA. 

Before you ask me why I have not written you, first let me be informed 
by \-o\\, Jiow I shall write you? "In friendship," you say; and I have 
many a time taken up my pen to try an epistle of "friendship" to you, 
but it will not do ; "tis like Jove grasping a popgun after having wielded 
his thunder. When I take up the pen, recollection ruins me. Ah, my 
ever-dearest Clarinda ! Clarinda ! What a host of memory's tenderest 
offspring crowd on my fancy at that sound ! But I must not indulge that 
subject ; you have forbid it. 

I am extremely happy to learn that your precious health is re-established, 
and that you are once more fit to enjoy that satisfaction in existence which 
health alone can give us. My old friend Ainslie has indeed been kind to 
you. Tell him, that I envy him the power of serving you. I had a letter 
from him a while ago, but it was so dry, so distant, so like a card to one of 
his clients, that I could scarce bear to read it, and have not yet answered 
it. He is a good, honest fellow, and can write a friendly letter, which 
would do equal honour to his head and his heart, as a whole sheaf of his 
letters which I have by me will witness ; and though Fame does not blow 
her trumpet at my approach now as she did then, when he first honoured 
me with his friendship, yet I am as proud as ever; and when I am laid in 
my grave, I wish to be stretched at my full length, that I may occupy 
every inch of ground I have a right to. 

You would laugh were you to see me where I am just now. Would to 
Heaven you were here to laugh with me, though I am afraid that crying 
would be our first employment ! Here am I set, a solitary hermit, in the 
solitary room of a solitary inn, with a solitary bottle of wine by me, as grave 
and as stupid as an owl, but, like that owl, still faithful to my old song ; in 
confirmation of which, my dear Mrs. Mac, here is your good health ! May 
the hand-waled benisons o' Heaven bless your bonnie face ; and the 





THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



wratch wha skellies at your welfare, may the auld tinkler dell get him. to 
clout his rotten heart ! Amen. 

You must know, my dearest Madam, that these now many years, where- 
ever I am, in whatever company, when a married lady is called as a toast, 
I constantly give you ; but as your name has never passed my lips, even 
to my most intimate friend. I give you by the name of Mrs. Mac. This 
is so well known among my acquaintances, that when any married lady is 
called for, the toast-master will say : " Oh, we need not ask him who it'is : 
here's Mrs. Mack ! " I have also, among my convivial friends, set on foot 
a round of toasts, which I call a round of "Arcadian Shepherdesses — that 
is, a round of favourite ladies, under female* names celebrated in ancient 
song ; and then you are my Clarinda. So, my lovely Clarinda, I devote 
this glass of wine to a most ardent wish for your happiness. 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous sneer, 
Point out a censuring world, and bid me fear: 
Above that world on wings of love I rise; 
I know its worst, and can that worst despise. 

" Wronged, injured, shunned, unpitied, unredrest — 
The mocked quotation of the scorner's jest " — 
Let Prudence' direst bodements on me fall, 
Clarinda, rich reward! o'erpays them all. 

I have been rhyming a little of late, but I do not know if they are worth 
postage. 

Tell me what you think of the following monody. \See page 117.] 
The subject of the foregoing is a woman of fashion in this country, 1 
with whom at one period I was well acquainted. By some scandalous 
conduct to me. and two or three othei gentlemen here as well as me, she 
steered so far to the north of my good opinion, that I have made her the 
theme of several ill-natured things. . . . 

R. B. 

No. CCXCVIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Jrdy, 1794. 
Is there no news yet of Pleyel.^ Or is j'our work to be at a dead sto]3 
until the allies set our modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage thraldom 
of democratic discords ? Alas the day ! And woe is me ! That auspicious 
period, pregnant with the happiness of millions, . . . seems by no 
means near."^ 

No. CCXCIX. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Zoth August, -L-jfj^. 

, „ - ---, o of " O'er the H.... 

and Far Away," I spun the following stanza for it ; but whether my 

1 Mrs. Riddel. 

- The suppressed portion of the letter was an ironical tirade on the mishaps of Prussia in her 
war against France. 





548 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



spinning will deserve to be laid up in store, like the precious thread of the 
silk-worm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile manufacture of the spider, 
I leave, my dear Sir, to your usual candid criticism. I was pleased with 
several lines in it, at first ; but I own that now it appears rather a flimsy 
business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether it be worth a critique. 
We have many sailor songs ; but, as far as I at present recollect, they are 
mostly the eftusions of the jovial sailor, not the wailings of his love-lorn 
mistress. I must here make one sweet exception — "Sweet Annie frae 
the Sea-beach came." Now for the song : — 

[" On the Seas an* Far Away." Given in page 187.] 



No. CCC. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Sept., 1794. 

I SHAi^L withdraw my "On the Seas and Far Away" altogether: it is 
unequal, and unworthy the work. Making a poem is like begetting a son : 
you cannot know whether you have a wise man or a fool, until you produce 
him to the world to try him. 



No. CCCI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

Sei>t., 1794. 

... To compare small things with great, my taste in music is like 
the mighty Frederick of Prussia's taste in painting: we are told that 
he frequently admired what the connoisseurs decried, and always, without 
any hypocrisy, confessed his admiration. I am sensible that my taste in 
music must be inelegant and vulgar, because people of undisputed and 
cultivated taste can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Still, because I 
am cheaply pleased, is that any reason why I should deny myself that 
pleasure? Many of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me most 
exquisite enjoyment, where you and other judges would probably be 
showing disgust. For instance, I am just now making verses for " Rothe- 
murche's Rant," an air which puts me in raptures ; and, in fact, unless I 
be pleased with the tune, I never can make verses to it. . . . 

I have begun anew " Let me in this ae night." Do you think that we 
ought to retain the old choms? I think we must retain both the old 
chorus and the first stanza of the old song. I do not altogether like the 
third line of the first stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. I am 
just three stanzas deep in it. Would you have the denouement to be 
successful or otherwise? Should she " let him in" or not? . . . 

How do you like the following epigram, which I wrote the other day, on 
a lovely young girl's recovery from a fever? Doctor Maxwell was the 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 549 

physician who seemingly saved her from her grave ; and to him I address 
the following. {See page 161.) 

TO DR. MAXWELL. 

ON MISS JESSIE CR.MG's RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave. 

That merit I deny; 
You save fair Jessie from the grave? — 

An angel could not die. 

God grant you patience with this stupid epistle ! 

No. CCCII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

My dear Friend, 19^/^ October, 1794. 

By this morning's post I have your list, and, in general, I highly 
approve of it. I shall, at more leisure, give you a critique on the whole'. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I wish you would call on him 
and take his opinion in general : you know his taste is a standard. He 
will return here again in a week or two ; so please do not miss asking for 
him. One thing 1 hope he will do, persuade you to adopt my favourite, 
" Cragie-burn Wood," in your selection: it is as great a favourite of his 
as of mine. The lady on whom it was made is one of the finest women 
in Scotland; and, in fact {enti-e no2is), is in a manner to me what .Sterne's 
Eliza was to him — a mistress, or friend, or what you will, in the guileless 
.simplicity 01 'Platonic love. (Now don't put any of your squinting con- 
structions on this, or have any clishmaclaiver about it among our acquaint- 
ances.) I assure you that to my lovely friend you are indebted for many 
of your best songs of mine. Do you think that the sober, gin-horse 
routine of existence could inspire a man with life, and love, and joy — 
could fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with pathos equal to the genius 
of your book ? — no ! no ! Whenever 1 want to be more than ordinary in 
song, to be in some degree equal to your diviner airs, do you imagine I 
fast and pray for the celestial emanation ? Tout an contraire ! I have a 
glorious recipe ; the very one that for his own use was invented by the 
divinity of healing and poetry, when erst he piped to the flocks of Admetus. 
I put myself on a regimen of admiring a fine woman ; and in proportion 
to the adorability of her charms, in proportion you are delighted with my 
verses. The lightning of her eye is the godhead of Parnassus, and the 
witchery of her smile the divinity of Helicon ! . . . 

These English songs gravel riie to death. I have not that command of 
the language that I have of my native tongue. I have been at " Duncan 
Gray," to dress it in English, but all I can do is deplorably stupid. 




:t£ 



550 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



No. CCCIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

[" Chloris," otherwise Jean, was the eldest daughter of Mr. W. Lorimer, a 
farmer on the banks of the Nith — a very handsome girl. She made an unfortu- 
nate love-match with a young gentleman from Cumberland named Whelpdale, 
who, being pursued for debts, abandoned his wife. She returned to her parents, 
being then only about eighteen years of age, and did not see her husband again for 
twenty-three years.] 

Noiieniber, 1794. 

On my first visit the other day to my fair Chloris (that is the poetic name 
of the lovely goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea which I, in 
my return from the visit, wrought into the following song [Chloris] . 

I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly into the story of " 7na 
che7'e Amie.'''' I assure you, I was never more in earnest in my life than 
in the account of that affair which I sent you in my last. Conjugal love 
is a passion which I deeply feel, and highly venerate ; but, somehow, it 
does not make such a figure in poesy as that other species of the passion, 

" Where Love is liberty, and Nature law." 

Musically speaking, the first is an insti-ument of which the gamut is scanty 
and confined, but the tones ine.xpressibly sweet ; while the last has powers 
equal to all the intellectual modulations of the human soul. Still, I am a 
very poet in my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and happiness 
of the beloved object is the first and inviolate sentiment that pervades my 
soul ; and whatever pleasure I might wish for, or whatever might be the 
raptures they would give me, yet, if they interfere with that first principle, 
it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price ; and justice forbids, and 
generosity disdains, the purchase ! 

Despairing of my own powers to give you variety enough in English 
songs, I have been turning over old collections, to pick out songs of which 
the measure is something similar to what I want ; and, with a little alter- 
ation, so as to suit the rhythm of the air exactly, to give you them for your 
work. Where the songs have hitherto been but little noticed, nor have 
ever been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. . . . 



No. CCCIV. 

TO. G. THOMSON. 

. . . There is an air, " The Caledonian Hunt's Delight," to which I 
wrote a song that you will find in Johnson. ' ' Ye Banks and Braes o' bonnie 
Doon " : this air, I think, might find a place among your hundred, as Lear 
says of his knights. Do you know the history of the air? It is curious 
enough. A good many years ago Mr. James Miller, writer in your good 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



551 



town — a gentleman whom, possibly, you know — was in company with our 
friend Clarke ; and talking of Scottish music, Miller expressed an ardent 
ambition to be able to compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly by way of 
joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the harpsichord, and preserve 
some kind of rhythm, and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Cer- 
tain it is that, in a few days, Mr. Miller produced the rudiments of an air, 
which Mr. Clarke, with some touches and corrections, fashioned into the 
tune in question. Ritson, you know, has the same story of the black 
keys ; but this account which I have just given you Mr. Clarke informed 
me of several years ago. Now, to show you how difiRcult it is to trace the 
origin of our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted, that this was an 
Irish air; nay, I met with an Irish gentleman who affirmed he had heard 
it in Ireland among the old women ; while, on the other hand, a Countess 
informed me that the first person who introduced the air into this country 
was a baronet's lady of her acquaintance, who took down the notes from 
an itinerant piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult, then, to ascertain 
the truth respecting our poesy and music! I myself have lately seen a 
couple of ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, with my name at 
the head of them as the author, though it was the first time I had ever seen 
them. . . . 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the request ; His dunning your 
generosity : but, in a moment when I had forgotten whether I was rich or 
poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your songs. It wrings my honest 
pride to write you this, but an ungracious request is doubly so by a tedious 
apology. To make you some amends, as soon as I have extracted the 
necessary information out of them, I will return you Ritson's volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to make so distinguished a 
figure in your collection, and I am not a little proud that I have it in my 
power to please her so much. Lucky it is for your patience that my paper 
is done, for when I am in a scribbling humour, I know not when to give 
over. — R. B. 




No. CCCV. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

19M November, 1794. 

You see, my dear Sir, what a punctual correspondent I am ; though 
indeed you may thank yourself for the tedium of my letters, as you have 
so flattered me on my horsemanship with my favourite hobby, and have 
praised the grace of his ambling so much, that I am scarcely ever off his 
back. For instance, this morning, though a keen blowing frost, in my 
walk before breakfast I finished my duet [" O Philly, happy be that Day "] 
which you were pleased to praise so much. . . . 

I remember your objections to the name Philly ; but it is the common 
abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only other name that suits, has, to my 
ear, a vulgarity about it which unfits it for anything except burlescjue. 
The legion of Scottish poetasters of the day, whom your brother editor, 





:h=lJ 



fex 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



Mr. Ritson, ranks with me, as my coevals, have always mistaken vulgarity 
for simplicity ; whereas simplicity is as much eloignee from vulgarity, on 
the one hand, as from affected point and puerile conceit on the other. 

I agree with you, as to the air " Craigie-burn Wood," that a chorus 
would, in some degree, spoil the effect ; and shall certainly have none in 
my projected song to it. It is not, however, a case in point with " Rothe- 
murche " ; there, as in " Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus goes, to my 
taste, well enough. As to the chorus going first, that is the case with 
" Roy's Wife" as well as " Rothemurche." In fact, in the first part of 
both tunes the rhythm is so peculiar and irregular, and on that irregularity 
depends so much of their beauty, that we must e'en take them with all 
their wildness, and humour the verse accordingly. Leaving out the 
starting-note in both tunes has, I think, an effect that no regularity could 
counterbalance the want of: — 



Try 



O Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch, 

O Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 




^ ^,„ „ -.v \ Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch, 

compare w.th | ^^^^.^ ^j. ^^^ ijnt-white licks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable strike you? In the last 
case, with the true furor of genius, you strike at once into the wild 
originality of the air ; whereas in the first insipid method it is like the 
grating screw of the pins before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is 
my taste ; if I am wrong, I beg pardon of the cognoscenti. 

"The Caledonian Hunt" is so charming, that it would make any 
subject in a song go down ; but pathos is certainly its native tongue. 
Scottish Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the few we have are 
excellent. For instance " Todlin Hame " is, for wit and humour, an 
unparalleled composition; and "Andrew and his cutty Gun" is the work 
of a master. By the way, are you not quite vexed to think that those men 
of genius, for such they certainly were, who composed our fine Scottish 
lyrics, should be unknown? It has given me many a heart-ache. — R. B. 



No. CCCVI. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

Since yesterday's penmanship I have framed a couple of English 
stanzas, by way of an English song to " Roy's Wife." 

[The song "Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy," is given in page 221.] 

Well ! I think this, to be done in two or three turns across my room 
and with two or three pinches of Irish blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see I am determined to have my quantum of applause from some- 
body. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we only want the trifling 
circumstance of being known to one another, to be the best friends on 
earth) that I much suspect he has, in his plates, mistaken the figure of the 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 553 

stock and horn. I have at last gotten one ; but it is a very rude instru- 
ment : it is composed of three parts ; the stock, which is the hinder 
thigh-bone of a sheep, such as you see in a mutton-ham; the horn, which 
is a common Highland cow's born, cut off at the smaller end, until the 
aperture be large enough to admit the stock, to be pushed up through the 
horn, until it be held by the thicker end of the thigh-bone ; and, lastly, an 
oaten reed exactly cut and notched, like that which you see every shepherd- 
boy have when the corn-stems are green and full-grown. The reed is not 
made fast in the bone, but held by the lips, and plays loose in the 
smaller end of the stock; while the stock, with the horn hanging on its 
larger end, is held by the hands in playing. The stock has six or seven 
ventiges on the upper side, and one back-ventige, like the common flute. 
This of mine was made by a man from the braes of Athole, and is exactly 
what the shepherds are wont to use in that country. 

However, either it is not quite properly bored in the holes, or else we 
have not the art of blowing it rightly : for we can make little of it. If 
Mr. Allan chooses, I will send him a sight of mine ; as I look on myself 
to be a kind of brother-brush with him. " Pride in poets is nae sin," and, 
I will say it, that I look on Mr. Allan and Mr. Burns to be the only 
genuine and real painters of Scottish costume in the world. — R. B. 



No. CCCVII. 
TO PETER MILLER, JUN., ESQ., 

OF DALSWINTON. 

[This is a reply to an offer by Mr. Perry (through Mr. Peter Miller) of an 
engagement on the Morning Chronicle, of which he was editor.] 

Dear Sir, Dumfries, N'ovembar, 1794. 

Your offer is indeed truly generous, and most sincerely do I thank 
you for it ; but in my present situation I find that I dare not accept it. 
You well know my political sentiments ; and were I an insular individual, 
unconnected with a wife and a family of children, with the most fervid 
enthusiasm I would have volunteered my services : I then could and 
would have despised all consequences that might have ensued. 

My prospect in the Excise is something ; at least, it is, encumbered as 
1 am with the welfare, the very existence, of near half a score of helpless 
individuals, what I dare not sport with. 

In the mean time they are most welcome to my Ode ; only let them 
insert it as a thing they have met with by accident and unknown to me. 
Nay, if Mr. Perry, whose honour, after your character of him, I cannot 
doubt ; if he will give me an address and channel by which anything will 
come safe from those spies with which he may be certain that his corre- 
.spondence is beset,! will now and then send him any bagatelle that I may 
write. In the present hurry of Europe nothing but news and politics will 






e 



^ 



554 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

be regarded ; but against the days of peace, which Heaven send soon, my 
little assistance may perhaps fill up an idle column of a newspaper. I 
have long had it in my head to try my hand in the way of little prose 
essays, which I propose sending into the world through the medium of 
some newspaper ; and should these be worth his while, to these Mr. 
Perry shall be welcome ; and all my reward shall be, his treating me 
with his paper — which, by the by, to anybody who has the least relish for 
wit, is a high treat indeed. 

With the most grateful esteem, I am ever, dear Sir. 

R. B. 



No. CCCVIII. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

yanicary , 1795. 

I FEAR for my songs ; however a few may please, yet originality is 
a coy feature in composition, and a multiplicity of efforts in the same 
style disappears altogether. For these three thousand years we poetic 
folks have been describing the spring, for instance ; and, as the spring 
continues the same, there must soon be a sameness in imagery, &c., of 
these said rhyming folks. 

A great critic (Aikin) on songs says that love and wine are the exclusive 
themes for song-writing. The following is on neither subject, and conse- 
quently is no song ; but will be allowed, 1 think, to be two or three pretty 
good prose thoughts inverted into rhyme : — 

[" Is there, for honest poverty." Page 227.] 



No. CCCIX. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

My dear Thomson, Y.cci.-e.¥KCHa.^, jtk February, xj<)s. 

You cannot have any idea of the predicament in which I write to 
you. In the course of my duty as supervisor (in which capacity I have 
acted of late) I came yesternight to this unfortunate, wicked little village. 
I have gone forward, but snows, of ten feet deep, have impeded my pro- 
gress : 1 have tried to " gae back the gate I cam again," but the same 
obstacle has shut me up within insuperable bars. To add to my misfor- 
tune, since dinner a scraper has been torturing catgut, in sounds that 
would have insulted the dying agonies of a sow under the hands of a 
butcher, and thinks himself,'on that very account, exceeding good company. 
In fact, I have been in a dilemma — either to get drunk, to forget these 
miseries ; or to hang myself, to get rid of them : like a prudent man (a 
character congenial to my every thought, word, and deed), I, of two 
evils, have chosen the least, and am very drunk, at your service ! 





7 'HE LET TERS OF B URNS. 555 



No. CCCX. 
TO MR. HERON, 

OF HERON. 

[Mr. Heron was at this time a candidate for the representation of the Stevvartry 
of Kirkcudbright; and there can be no question that Burns's poetical advocacy of 
his cause, however generous, was extremely imprudent in any Government official 
in that time of keen political excitement. Mr. Heron carried the election.] 

Sir, Dumfries, 1794 or 1795. 

I enclose you some copies of a couple of political ballads ; one of 
which, I believe, you have never seen. Would to Heaven I could make 
you master of as many votes in the Stewartry ! but — 

" Who does the utmost that he can, 
Does well, acts nobly; angels could no more." 

In order to bring my humble efforts to bear with more effect on the foe, 
I have privately printed a good many copies of both ballads, and have 
sent them among friends all about the country. 

To pillory on Parnassus the rank reprobation of character, the utter 
dereliction of all principle, in a profligate junto, which has not only out- 
raged virtue, but violated common decency, spurning even hypocrisy 
as paltry iniquity below their daring ; — to unmask their flagitiousness 
to the broadest day — to deliver such over to their merited fate — is surely 
not merely innocent, but laudable ; is not only propriety, but virtue. You 
have already, as your auxili^y, the sober detestation of mankind on the 
heads of your opponents ; and I swear b}' the lyre of Thalia to muster on 
your side all the votaries of honest laughter and fair, candid ridicule ! 

I am extremely obliged to you for your kind mention of my interests in 
a letter which Mr. Syme showed me. At present my situation in life must 
be in a great measure stationary, at least for two or three years. The 
statement is this : I am on the supervisors' list, and as we come on there 
by precedency, in two or three years I shall be at the head of that list, and 
be appointed of course. Then a friend might be of service to me in 
getting me into a place of the kingdom which I would like. A supervisor's 
income varies from about a hundred and twenty to two hundred a year ; 
but the business is an incessant drudgery, and would be nearly a complete 
bar to every species of literary pursuit. The moment I am appointed 
supervisor, in the common routine, I may be nominated on the collector's 
list; and this is always a business purely of political patronage. A col- 
lectorship varies much, from better than two hundred a year to near a 
thousand. They also come forward by precedency on the list ; and have, 
besides a handsome income, a life of complete leisure. A life of literary 
leisure, with a decent competency, is the summit of my wishes. It would 
be the prudish affectation of silly pride in me to say that I do not need, or 
would not be indebted to, a political friend : at the same time. Sir, I by no 
means lay my affairs before you thus, to hook my dependant situation on 




^ 556 TI/£ LE TTERS OF B URNS. 

your benei^olence. If, in my progress of life, an opening should occur 
where the good offices of a gentleman of your public character and politi- 
cal consequence might bring me forward, 1 shall petition your goodness 
with the same frankness as I now do myself the honour to subscribe 
myself, — R. B. 

No. CCCXI. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

[Enclosing " How cruel are the Parents," and " Mark yonder Pomp."] 

. . Well ! this is not amiss. You see how I answer your orders ; 
your tailor could not be more punctual. I am just now in a high fit of 
poetizing, provided that the strait-jacket of criticism don't cure me. If 
you can in a post or two administer a little of the intoxicating potion of 
your applause, it will raise your humble servant's phrenzy to any height 
you want. I am at this moment " holding high converse " with the Muses, 
and have not a word to throw away on such a prosaic dog as you are. 

No. CCCXII. 

TO G. THOM.SON. 

May, 1795. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant present ; ^ though I am ashamed 
of the value of it, being bestowed on a man who has not by any means 
merited such an instance of kindness. I have shown it to two or three 
judges of the first abilities here, and they all |gree with me in classing it 
as a first-rate production. My phiz is sae kenspeckle, that the very 
joiner's apprentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to break up the parcel (i 
was out of town that day) knew it at once. My most grateful compliments 
to Allan, who has honoured my rustic muse so much with his masterly 
pencil. One strange coincidence is, that the little one who is making the 
felonious attempt on the cat's tail is the most striking likeness of an ill- 
deedie, d — n'd wee rumble-gairie urchin of mine, whom, from that propen- 
sity to witty wickedness and manfu' mischief which even at twa days auld 
I foresaw would form the striking features of his disposition, I named 
Willie Nicol ; after a. certain friend of mine, who is one of the masters of 
a grammar-school in a city which shall be nameless. 

No. CCCXIII. 

TO G. THOMSON. 

In "Whistle, and I'll come to ye, my Lad," the iteration of that line is 
tiresome to my ear. Here goes what I think is an improvement : — 

1 The picture alluded to was painted by David Allan from the " Cotter's Saturday Night " : it 
displays at once the talent and want of taste of the ingenious artist. The scene is a solemn one: 
but the serenity of the moment is disturbed by what some esteem as a beauty — namely, the attempt 
to cut the tip of the cat's tail by the little merry urchin seated on the floor. — Allan C7inninghain. 





^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



557 



" O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; 
O whistle, and I'll come to ye, my lad; 
Tho" father, and mother, and a' should gae mrd, 
Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad." 

In fact, a fair dame, at whose shrine I, the Priest of the Nine, offer up 
the incense of Parnassus ; a dame, whom the Graces have attired in 
witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed with Ughtning ; a fair one, 
herself the heroine of the song, insists on the amendment, and dispute her 
commands if you dare ! 

No. CCCXIV. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Dumfries, 1795. 

Mr. Burns's compHments to Mrs. Riddel ; is much obliged to her for 
her polite attention in sending him the book. Owing to Mr. B. being at 
present acting as supervisor of Excise, a department that occupies his 
every hour of the day, he has not that time to spare which is necessary 
for any belle-lettre pursuit ; but, as he will, in a week or two, again return 
to his wonted leisure, he wall then pay that attention to Mrs. R.'s beautiful 
song, "To thee, loved Nith." which it so well deserves. When " Ana- 
charsis' Travels" come to hand, which Mrs. Riddel mentioned as lier gift 
to the public library, Mr. B. will feel honoured by the indulgence of a 
perusal of them before presentation : it is a book he has never yet seen, 
and the regulations of the library allow too little leisure for deliberate 
reading. 

Friday Evetiing. 

P.S. Mr. Burns will be much obliged to Mrs Riddel if she will favour 
him with a perusal of any of her poetical pieces which he may not have 



No. CCCXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

My dear Friend, 15^''' Dece7nher, 1795. 

As I am in a complete Decemberish humour, gloomy, sullen, stupid, 
as even the Deity of Dulness herself could wish, I shall not drawl out a 
heavy letter with a number of heavier apologies for my late silence. Only 
one i shall mention, because I know you will sympathize in it : these four 
months a sweet little girl, my youngest child, has been so ill, that every 
day a week or less threatened to terminate her existence. There had 
much need be many pleasures annexed to the states of husband and 
father, for, God knows, they have many peculiar cares. I cannot describe 
to you the anxious, sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. I see a 
train of helpless little folks ; me and my exertions all their stay : and on 
what a brittle thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt off at the 
command of fate! even in all the vigour of manhood as I am — such 



TR- 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



things happen every day — gracious God ! what would become of my 
little flock ! 'Tis here that 1 envy your people of fortune. A father on 
his death-bed, taking an everlasting leave of his children, has indeed woe 
enough ; but the man of competent fortune leaves his sons and daughters 
independency and friends, while 1 — but I shall run distracted if I think 
any longer on the subject ! 

To leave talking of the matter so gravely, I shall sing with the old Scots 
ballad — 

" O that I had ne'er been married! 

I would never had nae care : 

Now I've gotten wife and bairns, 

They cry crowdie ! evermair. 

Crowdie! ance; crowdie! twice; 

Crowdie! three times in a day; 
An ye, crowdie ! ony mair, 

Ye'U crowdie! a' my meal away." 



December ii,ih. 

We have had a brilliant theatre here this season ; only, as all other 
business does, it experiences a stagnation of trade from the epidemical 
complaint of the country, ivant of cash. I mentioned our theatre merely 
to lug in an occasional Address which I wrote for the benefit-night of one 
of the actresses, and which is as follows : — 

[Here the Address is transcribed. See page 112.] 

25//?, Christmas Morning. 

This, my much-loved friend, is a morning of wishes ; accept mine — so 
Heaven hear me as they are sincere! — that blessings may attend )our 
steps, and affliction know you not! In the charming words of my 
favourite author. " The Man of Feeling," " May the Great Spirit bear up 
the weight of thy grey hairs, and blunt the arrow that brings them rest ! " 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like CowperP^ Is not the 
"Task" a glorious poem? The religion of the "Task," bating a few 
scraps of Calvinistic divinity, is the religion of God and nature ; the 
religion that exalts, that ennobles man. Were not you to send me your 
" Zeluco" in return for mine? Tell me how you like my marks and notes 
through the book. I would not give a farthing for a book, unless I were 
at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, all my letters ; I mean 
those which I first sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards wrote out 
fair. On looking over some old musty papers, which, from time to time, 
I had parcelled by, as trash that were scarce worth preserving, and which 
yet at the same time I did not care to destroy, I discovered many of 
these rude sketches, and have written, and am writing them out, in a 

1 Burns generally carried Cowper's " Task " in his pocket, and took it out when he found him- 
self in a lonely road, or in a brewhouse where he had to wait sometimes to " gauge the browst." 
The copy which he used was one lent to him by Mrs. Dunlop, the margins of which he enriched 
with notes, critical and commendatory. 



^- 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 




bound MS. for my friend's library. As I wrote always to you the rhap- 
sody of the moment, I cannot find a single scroll to you except one, about 
the commencement of our acquaintance. If there were any possible 
conveyance, I would send you a perusal of my book. — R. B. 



No. CCCXVI. 
TO MRS. DUN LOP, 

IN LONDON. 

Dumfries, loth Dccejiiber, 1795. 

I HAVE been prodigiously disappointed in this London journey of yours. 
In the first place, when your last to me reached Dumfries, I was in the 
country, and did not return until too late to answer your letter ; in the 
next place, I thought you would certainly take this route ; and now I 
know not what has become of you, or whether this may reach you at all. 
God grant that it may find you and yours in prospering health and good 
spirits ! Do let me hear from you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend Captain Miller, I shall every 
leisure hour take up the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, prose 
or poetry, sermon or song. In this last article I have abounded of late. 
I have often mentioned to you a superb publication of Scottish Songs, 
which is making its appearance in your great metropolis, and where I 
have the honovu- to preside over the Scottish verse, as no less a personage 
than Peter Pindar does over the English. 

December lOjth. 

Since I began this letter, I have been appointed to act in the capacity 
of supervisor here ; and I assure you, what with the load of business, and 
what with that business being new to me, I could scarcely have com- 
manded ten minutes to have spoken to you, had you been in town, much 
less to have written you an epistle. This appointment is only temporary, 
and during the illness of the present incumbent; but I look forward to an 
early period when I shall be appointed in full form — a consummation 
devoutly to be wished ! My political sins seem to be forgiven me. 

This is the season (New-year's-day is now my date) of wishing ; and 
mine are most fervently offered up for you. May life to you be a positive 
blessing while it lasts, for your own sake ; and that it may yet be greatly 
prolonged is my wish, for my own sake, and for the sake of the rest of 
your friends ! What a transient business is life ! Very lately I was a 
boy ; but t'other day I was a young man ; and I already begin to feel the 
rigicl fibre and stiffening joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. 
With all my follies of youth, and I fear a few vices of manhood, still I 
congratulate myself on having had in early days religion strongly 
impressed on my mind. I have nothing to say to any one as to which sect 
he belongs to, or what creed he believes : but I look on the man who is 
firmly persuaded of infinite Wisdom and Goodness superintending and 
directing every circumstance that can happen in his lot — I felicitate sue' 




560 THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 

a man, as having a solid foundation for his mental enjoyment ; a firm prop 
and sure stay in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress; and a never- 
failing anchor of hope, when he looks beyond the grave. 

jfanziary izih. 

You will have seen our worthy and ingenious friend, the Doctor, long 
ere this. I hope he is well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have 
just been reading over again, I daresay for the hundred and fiftieth time, 
his "View of Society and Manners"; and still I read it with delight. 
His humour is perfectly original : it is neither the humour of Addison, 
nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor of anybody but Dr. Moore. By the by, you 
have deprived me of "Zeluco": remember that, when you are disposed 
to rake up the sins of my neglect from among the ashes of my laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by quoting me in his last 
publication. — R. B. 

No. CCCXVII. 

TO THE HON. THE PROVOST, BAILIES, AND TOWN COUNCIL 
OF DUMFRIES. 

Gentlemen, [1795-] 

The literary taste and liberal spirit of your good town has so ably 
filled the various departments of your schools, as to make it a very great 
object for a parent to have his children educated in them. Still, to me, a 
stranger, with my large family and very stinted income, to give my young 
ones that education I wish, at the high school fees which a stranger pays, 
will bear hard upon me. 

Some years ago your good town did me the honour of making me an 
honorary Burgess. Will you allow me to request that this mark of dis- 
tinction may extend so far as to put me on a footing of a real freeman of 
the town in the schools? 

That I may not appear altogether unworthy of this favour allow me to 
state to you some little services I have lately done a branch of your 
revenue — the two pennies exigible on foreign ale vended within your 
limits. In this rather neglected article of your income, I am ready to 
show that within these few weeks my exertions have secured for you of 
those duties nearly the sum of Ten Pounds ; and in this, too, I was the 
only one of the gentlemen of the Excise (except Mr. Mitchell, whom you 
pay for his trouble) who took the least concern in the business. 

If you are so very kind as to grant my request, it will certainly be a 
constant incentive to me to strain every nerve where I can officially serve 
you, and will, if possible, increase that grateful respect with which I have 
the honour to be. 

Gentlemen, 

Your devoted humble Servant, 

R. B.' 

' The original draft of this letter is in the British Museum. Cromek, who first published it 
(omitting, however, the third paragraph) states that the poet's request was immediately complied 
with. 



^ 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



561 



No. CCCXVIII. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL. 

Dumfries, •20th January, 1796. 

I CANNOT express my gratitude to you for allowing me a longer perusal 
of " Anacharsis.'" In fact. I never met with a book that bewitched me so 
much ; and I, as a member of the library, must warmly feel the obligation 
you have laid us under. Indeed, to me the obligation is stronger than to 
any other individual of our society ; as " Anacharsis " is an indispensable 
desideratum to a son of the Muses. 

The health you wished me in your morning's card is, I think, flown 
from me for ever. I have not been able to leave my bed to-day till about 
an hour ago. These wickedly unlucky advertisements I lent (I did wrong) 
to a friend, and I am ill able to go in quest of him. 

R. B. 
No. CCCXIX. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

[There seems about this time to have been some coldness between Burns 
and Mrs. Dunlop, probably caused by her displeasure at his confirmed habits of 
conviviality.] 

Dumfries, 31^ January, 1796. 

These many months you have been two packets in my debt : what sin 
of ignorance I have committed against so highly valued a friend I am 
utterly at a loss to guess. Alas, Madam ! ill can I afford, at this time, to 
be deprived of any of the small remnant of my pleasures. I have lately 
drunk deep of the cup of affliction. The autumn robbed me of my only 
daughter and darling child, and that at a distance too, and so rapidly, as 
to put it out of my power to pay the last duties to her. I had scarcely 
begun to recover from that shock, when I became myself the victim of a 
most severe rheumatic fever, and long the die spun doubtful ; until, after 
many weeks of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up life, and I am 
beginning to crawl across my room, and once indeed have been before 
my own door in the street. 

" When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 
Affliction purifies the visual ray, 
Religion hails the drear, the untried night. 
And shuts, for ever shuts, life's doubtful day." 



R. B. 



No. CCCXX.' 



TO MRS. RIDDEL, 

[Who had desired him to go to the Birthday Assembly on that day to show his 
loyalty.] 

Dumfries, ^tk June, 1796. 

I AM in such miserable health as to be utterly incapable of showing my 
loyalty in any way. Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every faca 
with a greeting like that of Balak to Balaam: "Come, curse me Jacob-,, 
and come, defy me Israel!" So say I : Come, curse me that east wind, 





^ 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



and come, defy me the north ! Would you have me in such circumstances 
copy you out a love-song? 

I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will not be at the ball. Why 
should I? " Man delights not me, nor woman either ! " Can you supply 
me with the song, " Let us all be unhappy together? '■" — do if you can, and 
oblige le pauvre miserable. — R. B. 

No. CCCXXI. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

April, 1796. 

Alas ! my dear Thomson, I fear it will be sometime ere I tune my lyre 
again ! "By Babel's streams I have sat and wept " almost ever since 1 
wrote you last. I have only known existence by the pressure of the heav)- 
hand of sickness ; and have counted time by the repercussions of pain. 
Rheumatism, cold, and fever have formed to me a terrible combination. 
I close my eyes in misery, and open them without hope. I look on the 
vernal day, and say with poor Fergusson — 

" Say, wherefore has an ill-indulgent Heaven 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given?" 

This will be delivered to you by a Mrs. Hyslop, landlady of the Globe 
Tavern here, which for these many years has been my howff,^ and where 
our friend Clarke and I have had many a merry squeeze. I am highly 
delighted with Mr. Allan's etchings. " Woo'd and married an' a'" is 
admirable ! The grouping is beyond all praise. The expression of the 
figures, conformable to the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultless 
perfection. I next admire " Turnimspike." What I like least is "Jenny 
said to Jocky." Besides the female being in her appearance quite a virago, 
if you take her stooping into the account, she is at least two inches taller 
than her lover. 

Poor Cleghorn ! I -sincerely sympathize with him ! Happy I am to 
think that he yet has a well-grounded hope of health and enjoyment in 
this world. As for me — but that is a damning subject ! 

No. CCCXXII. 

TO G. TMOMSOl'I. 

1 HAVE no copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have taken a fancy 
to review them all, and possibly may sencl some of them ; so, when 
you have complete leisure, I will thank you for either the originals or 
copies. I had rather be the author of five well-written songs than of ten 
otherwise. I have great hopes that the genial influence of the approaching 
summer will set me to rights, but as yet I cannot boast of returning health. 
I have now reason to believe that my complaint is a flying gout : a sad 
business ! 

1 The " howff" of which Burns speaks was a small, comfortable tavern, situated in the mouth 
of the Globe close, and it held at that time the rank as third among the houses of public accommo- 
dation in Dumfries. 



s 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



This should have been delivered to you a month ago. I am still very 
poorly, but should much like to liear from you. 

No. CCCXXIII. 
TO MR. JAMES JOHNSON, 

KD IN BURGH. 

[About May 17, 1796.] 

How are you, my dear friend, and how comes on your iifth volume? 
You mav probably think that for some time past I have neglected you 
and your work ; but, alas ! the hand of pain, and sorrow, and care, has 
these many months lain heavy on me ! Personal and domestic affliction 
have almost entirely banished that alacrity and life with which I used to 
woo the rural Muse of Scotia. In the meantime let us finish what we 
have so well begun. The gentleman, Mr. Levvars, a particular friend of 
mine, will bring out any proofs (if they are ready^ or any message you 
may have. Farewell! — R. B. 

[ Turn over.] 
[About ymie 17.] 

You should have had this when Mr. Lewars called on you, but his 
saddle-bags miscarried. I am extremely anxious for your work, as, 
indeed, I am for everything concerning you and your welfare. You are 
a good, worthy, honest fellow, and have a good right to live in this world 
— because you deserve it. Many a merry meeting this publication has 
given us, and possibly it may give us more, though, alas ! I fear it. This 
protracting, slow, consuming illness which hangs over me will, I doubt 
much, my ever dear friend, arrest my sun before he has well reached his 
middle career, and will turn over the poet to far more important concerns 
than studying the brilliancy of wit or the pathos of sentiment ! However, 
/lope is the cordial of the human heart, and I endeavour to cherish it as 
w.ell as I can. 

Let me hear from you as soon as convenient. Your work is a great 
one ; and now that it is near finished, I see, if we were to begin agam, two 
or three things that might be mended ; yet I will venture to prophesy, 
that to future ages your publication will be the text-book and standard of 
Scottish song and music. 

I am ashamed to ask another favour of you, because you have been so 
ver}- good already ; but my wife has a very particular friend of hers, a 
young lady who sings well, to whom she wishes to present the " Scots 
Musical Museum." If you have a spare copy, will you be so obliging as 
to send it by the very first ^', as I am anxious to have it soon. 

Yours ever, 

R. B. 

[In this humble and delicate manner did poor Burns ask for a copy of a work of 
which he wa*; principally the founder, and to which he had contributed, gratuitously, 
not less than 184 original, altered, and collected songs! The Editor has seen 




564 THE LE T TERS OF B URNS. 

180 transcribed by his own hand for the Museiwi. This letter was written on the 
4th of July — the Poet died on the 21st. — Cromek. A fac-simile of this interesting 
letter is given in the latest edition of Johnson's Museum, 1839. The date "July 4," 
affirmed by Cromek, is conjectural and evidently wrong.] 

No. CCCXXIV. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Brow, Sea-Bathing Quarters, ^ih July, 1796. 

My dear Cunningham, 

I received yours here this moment, and am indeed highly flattered 
with the approbation of the literary circle you mention — a literary circle 
inferior to none in the two kingdoms. Alas ! my friend, I fear the voice 
of the bard will soon be heard among you no more ! For these eight or 
ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed-fast and sometimes not; 
but these last three months 1 have been tortured with an excruciating 
rheumatism, which has reduced me to nearly the last stage. You actually 
would not know me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and so feeble as 
occasionally to need help from my chair — my spirits fled! fled! — but I 
can no more on the subject — only the medical folks tell me that my last 
and only chance is bathing, and country quarters, and riding. The deuce 
of the matter is this : when an exciseman is otf duty, his salary is reduced 
to 35/. instead of 50/. What way, in the name of thrift, shall I maintain 
myself, and keep a horse in country quarters, with a wife and five children 
at home, on 35/. ? I mention this, because I had intended to beg your 
utmost interest, and that of all the friends you can muster, to move our 
Commissioners of Excise to grant me the full salary ; 1 I dare say you 
know them all personally. If they do not grant it me, I must lay my 
account with an exit truly en poete — if I die not of disease, I must perish 
with hunger. 

I have sent you one of the songs ; the other my memory does not 
serve me with, and I have no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, 
when I will send it to you. Apropos to being at home, Mrs. Burns 
threatens in a week or two to add one more to my paternal charge, which, 
if of the right gender, I intend shall be introduced to the world by the 
respectable "designation of Alexander Cunninghain Bt(rns. My last was 
James Gle/icairn, so you can have no objection to the company of nobility. 
Farewell. — R. B. 

No. CCCXXV. . 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 

Dear Brother, ^<^^'' ^''^V' '796- 

It will be no very pleasing news to you to be told that I am 

dangerously ill, and not likely to "get better. An inveterate rheumatism 

has reduced me to such a state of debility, and my appetite is so totally 

gone, that I can scarcely stand on my legs. I have been a week at sea- 

' The Poet's humble request of the continuance of his full salary was not granted. 




THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



bathing, and I will continue there, or in a friend's house in the country, 
all the summer. God keep my wife and children ! if I am taken from 
their head, they will be poor indeed. 1 have contracted one or two serious 
debts, partly from my illness these many months, partly from too much 
thoughtlessness as to expense when 1 came to town, that will cut in too 
much on the little I leave them in your hands. Remember me to my 
mother. 

Yours. 

R. B. 
No. CCCXXVI. 

TO G. THOMSON. 
My dear Sir, Brow, i,th juiy. 

I received }Our songs : but my health is so precarious, nay, danger- 
ously situated, that as a last effort I am here at sea-bathing quarters. 
Besides my inveterate rheumatism, my appetite is quite gone, and I am so 
emaciated as to be scarce able to support myself on my own legs ! Alas ! 
is this a time for me to woo the Muses ? However, I am still anxiously 
willing to serve your work, and, if possible, shall try. I would not like to 
see another employed, unless you could lay your hand upon a poet whose 
productions would be equal to tlie rest. You will see my remarks and 
alterations on the margin of each song. My address is still Dumfries. 
Farewell, and God bless you ! — R. B. 

[The handwriting of this note is smaller and less steady than the other letters 
■ — like the writing of one who, in the interval, had become an old man. — 
Robert Chanibers.'\ 

No. CCCXXVII. 

TO MRS. BURNS. 
My dearest Love, Brow, Thursday. 

I delayed writing until I could tell you what effect sea-bathing 
was likely to produce. It would be injustice to deny that it has eased my 
pains, and I think has strengthened me : but my appetite is still extremely 
bad. No flesh nor fish can 1 swallow: porridge and milk are the onl\' 
things I can taste. I am very happy to hear, by Miss Jess Lewars, that 
vou are all well. My very best and kindest compliments to her, and to 
all the children. I will see you on Sunday. 

Your affectionate Husband, 

R. B. 

No. CCCXXVIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Madam, Brow, Saturday, I'zth July, 1796. 

I have written you so often, without receiving any answer, that I 
would not trouble you again, but for the circumstances in which I am. 
An illness which has long hung about me in all probability will speedily 




^ 



1=^- 



^ 



I 566 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



send me beyond that bourn whence no traveller returns-. Your friendship, 
with which for many years you honoured me, was a friendship dearest to 
my soul. Your conversation, and especially your correspondence, were at 
once highly entertaining and instructive. With what pleasure did I use 
to break up the seal ! The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my 
poor palpitating heart. Farewell! ! ! — R. B. 



No. CCCXXIX. 
TO MR. JAMES BURNES. 

WRITER, MONTROSE. 
My dear Cousin, Dumfries, i2ih July. 

When you oiifered me money assis/ance, little did I think I should 
want it so soon. A rascal of a haberdasher, to whom I owe a considerable 
bill, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced a process 
against me, and will infallibly put my emaciated body into jail. Will you 
be so good as to accommodate me, and that by return of post, with ten 
pounds? O, James ! did you know the pride of my heart, you would feel 
doubly for me. Alas ! I am not used to beg. The worst of it is, my 
health was coming about finely ; you know, and my physician assured me, 
that melancholy and low spirits are half my disease : guess, then, my 
horrors since this business began. If I had it settled, I would be, I think, 
quite well in a manner. How shall I use the language to you, O do not 
disappoint me ! but strong necessity's curst command. 

I have been thinking over and over my brother's affairs, and I fear I 
must cut him up ; but on this I will correspond at another time, particu- 
larly as I shall [require] your advice. 

Forgive me for once more mentioning by return of post ; — save me from 
the horrors of a jail ! 

My compliments to my friend James, and to all the rest. I do not know 
what I have writtenT The subject is so horrible, I dare not look it over 
again. Farewell, i— R. B. 



No. CCCXXX. 
TO G. THOMSON. 

Brow, on the Solway Frith, \2tk July, 1796. 

After all my boasted independence, curst necessity compels me to 
implore you for five pounds. ^ A cruel wretch of a haberdasher, to whom 
I owe an account, taking it into his head that I am dying, has commenced 

I James Burnes sent his cousin ten pounds the moment he received his letter, and shortly 
afterwards (June 29) five pounds to the poet's widow, offering at the same time to bring up and 
educate her son Robert, if she was disposed to part with him. Such substantial kindness is 
worthy of special notice. 

- The dying Poet wrote entreatingly for five pounds, and Thomson sent the exact sum which he 
requested, from in.ibility to send more; or, as he avers, from a dread of giving offence to the 
mind of Burns. 



# 



THE LETTERS OF BURNS. 



567 



a process, and will infallibly put me into jail. Do, for God's sake, send me 
that sum, and that by return of post. Forgive me this earnestness, but 
the horrors of a jail have made me half distracted. I do not ask all this 
gratuitously; for, upon returning health, I hereby promise and engage to 
turnish you with five pounds' worth of the neatest song-genius you have 
seen. I tried my hand on '• Rothemurche " this morning. The measure 
is so dhficult, that it is impossible to infuse much genius into the lines ; 
they are on the other side. (" Full well thou know'st." Page 197.) For- 
give, forgive me ! 

No. CCCXXXI. 

TO JAMES GRACIE, ESQ. 

[This is in answer to an offer on the part of Mr. Grade, a banker in Dumfries, 
to send a post-chaise to bring Burns home.] 

My dear Sir, 'Brow, IVednesday 3Iornzng,\(>th yiily, -iyg6. 

It would [be] doing high injustice to this place not to acknowledge 
that my rheumatisms have derived great benefits from it already ; but, 
alas ! my loss of appetite still continues. I shall not need your kind offer 
this week, and I return to town the beginning of next week, it not being a 
tide week. I am detaining a man in a burning hurry ; so, God bless you ! 

R. B. 



E 



No. CCCXXXII. 
TO MR. JAMES ARMOUR, 

MAUCHLINE. 
My dear Sir, Dumfries, 18M July, 1796. 

Do, for Heaven's sake, send Mrs. Armour here immediately. My 
wife is hourly expecting to be put to bed. Good God! what a situation 
for her to be in, poor girl,' without a friend ! I returned from sea-bathing 
quarters to-day, and my medical friends would almost persuade me that 
I am better ; but I think and feel that my strength is so gone that the 
disorder will prove fatal to me. 

Your Son-in-law, 

R. B. 

^ Mrs. Burns was in the 29th year of her age. 




THE BORDER TOUR. 



[The notes which Burns kept jotting down thus, from day to day, of two tours — ■ 
one through the Border counties and the other through the Highlands — are so 
characteristic that we append them to the Letters. Burns's companion during part 
of the Border tour was Mr. Robert Ainslie, a clever, gay, rollicking young fellow ^ — • 
then a writer's apprentice, afterwards a writer in Edinburgh. The pair travelled on 
horseback.] 

Left Edinburgh (May 6, 1787.) — Lammermuir hills miserably dreary, 
but at times very picturesque. Lanton-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. 
— Reach Berrywell [near Dunse] — old Mr. Ainslie an uncommon char- 
acter ; his hobbies agriculture, natural philosophy, and politics. In the 
first he is unexceptionally the clearest-headed, best-informed man I ever 
met with ; in the other two very intelligent. As a man of business he 
has uncommon merit, and by fairly deserving it has made a very decent 
independence. Mrs. Ainslie, an excellent, sensible, cheerful, amiable, old 
woman. Miss Ainslie — her person a little embo7ipoint, but handsome ; her 
face, particularly her eyes, full of sweetness and good humour. She unites 
three qualities rarely to be found together : keen, solid penetration ; sly, 
witty observation and remark ; and the gentlest, most unaffected female 
modesty. Douglas, a clever, promising young fellow. The family- 
meeting with their brother, my compagnon de voyage, very charming, 
particularly the sister. The whole family remarkably attached to their 
menials — Mrs. A. full of stories of the sagacity and sense of the little girl 
in the kitchen; Mr. A. high in the praises of an African, his house- 
servant: all his people old in his service — Douglas's old nurse came to 
Berrywell yesterday to remind them of its being his birthday. 

A Mr. Dudgeon, a poet at times, a worthy remarkable character — 
natural penetration, a great deal of imformation, some genius, and extreme 
modesty. 

Sunday. — Went to church at Dunse. Dr. Bowmaker a man of strong 
lungs and pretty juaicious remark ; but ill skilled in propriety, and 
altogether unconscious of his want of it. 



Monday. — Coldstream — went over to England — Cornhill, glorious river 
Tweed — clear and majestic — fine bridge. Dine at Coldstream with Mr. 
Ainslie and Mr. Foreman — beat Mr. F. in a dispute about Voltaire. 
Tea at Lenel House with Mr. Brydone. Mr. Brydone a most excellent 
heart, kind, joyous, and benevolent : but a good deal of the French 



^ 




^ 



.t^ 



THE BORDER TOUR. 569 



indiscriminate complaisance — from his situation past and present, an 
admirer of everything that bears a splendid title, or that possesses a 
large estate.^ Mrs. Brydone a most elegant woman in her person and 
manners; the tones of her voice remarkably sweet — my reception 
extremely flattering — sleep at Coldstream. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast at Kelso — charming situation of Kelso — fine 
bridge over the Tweed — enchanting views and prospects on both sides of 
the river, particularly the Scotch side ; introduced to Mr. Scott of the 
Royal Bank, an excellent, modest fellow — fine situation of it — ruins of 
Roxburgh Castle — a holly-bush growing where James II. of Scotland was 
accidentally killed by the bursting of a cannon. A small old religious 
ruin, and a fine old garden planted by the religious, rooted out and 
destroyed by an English Hottentot, a maitre dViStel of the Duke's, a Mr. 
Cole. Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and even Roxburghshire, supe- 
rior to Ayrshire — bad roads. Turnip and sheep husbandry, their great 
improvements — Mr. M'Dowal, at Caverton Mill, a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, 
with whom I dined to-day, sold his sheep, ewe and lamb together, at two 
guineas apiece — wash their sheep before shearing — seven or eight 
pounds of washen wool in a fleece — low markets, consequently low rents 
— fine lands not above sixteen shillings a Scotch acre — magnificence 
of farmers and farm-houses — come up Teviot and up Jed to Jedburgh to 
lie, and so wish myself a good night. 

IVednesday. — Breakfast with Mr. in Jedburgh — a .squabble be- 
tween Mrs. , a crazed, talkative slattern, and a sister of hers, an old 

maid, respecting a relief minister — Miss gives Madam the lie; and 
Madam, by way of revenge, upbraids her that she laid snares to entangle 
the said minister, then a widower, in the net of matrimony. Go about 
two miles out of Jedburgh to a roup of parks — meet a polite, soldier-like 
gentleman, a Captain Rutherford, who had been many years through the 
wilds of America, a prisoner among the Indians — charming, romantic 
situation of Jedburgh, with gardens, orchards, &c., intermingled among the 
houses — fine old i-uins — a once magnificent cathedral, and strong castle. 
All the towns here have the appearance of old, rude grandeur, but the 
people extremely idle — Jed a fine romantic little river. 

pine with Capt. Rutherford — the Captain a polite fellow, fond of money 
in his farming way ; showed a particular respect to my hardship — his lady 
exactly a proper matrimonial second part for him. Miss Rutherford a 
beautiful girl, but too far gone woman to expose so much of a fine swelling 
bosom — her face very fine. 

Return to Jedburgh — walk up Jed with some ladies to be shown Love- 
lane and Blackburn, two fairy scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, 

^ Mr. Brydone had been travelling tutor to several men of rank, and was the author of " A Tout 
in Sicily and Malta." In after years Scott visited Brydone, and in Marmion speaks of him as a 
*' reverend pilgrim," 

" Well worth the whole Bernardine brood 
That e'er wore sandal, frock, or hood." 



^ 




570 THE BORDEK rOUR. 

a very clever fellow ; and Mr. Somerville, the clergyman of the place, a 
man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to punning. The walking 

party of ladies : Mrs. and Miss her sister, before mentioned. — 

N. B. These two appear still more comfortably ugly and stupid, and 

bore me most shockingly. — Two Miss , tolerably agreeable. Miss 

Hope, a tolerably pretty girl, fond of laughing and fun. Miss Lindsay, a 
good-humoured, amiable girl ; rather short et e7}ibonpoi7it , but handsome 
and extremely graceful — beautiful hazel eyes, full of spirit, and sparkling 
with delicious moisture — an engaging face — un tout ensemble that speaks 
her of the first order of female minds. Her sister, a bonie, strappan, 
rosy, sonsie lass. Shake myself loose, after several unsuccessful efforts, 

of Mrs. and Miss , and somehow or other get hold of Miss 

Lindsay's arm. My heart is thawed into melting pleasure after being so 
long frozen up in the Greenland Bay of indifference, amid the noise and 
nonsense of Edinburgh. Miss seems very well pleased with my hardship's 
distinguishing her, and after some slight qualms, which I could easily 
mark, she sets the titter round at defiance, and kindly allows me to keep 
my hold ; and when parted by the ceremony of my introduction to Mr. 
Somerville, she met me half, to resume my situation. — Nota Bene. The 
Poet within a point and a half of being d-mnably in love — I am afraid my 
bosom is still nearly as much tinder as ever. 

The old, cross-grained, whiggish, ugly, slanderous Miss , with all 

the poisonous spleen of a disappointed, ancient maid, stops me very 
unseasonably to ease her bursting breast, by falling abusively foul on the 
Miss Lindsays, particularly on my Dulcinea ; — I hardly refrain froni 
cursing her to her face for daring to mouth her calumnious slander on 
one of the finest pieces of the workmanship of Almighty Excellence ! Sup 

at Mr. 's ; vexed that the Miss Lindsays are not of the supper-party, 

as they only are wanting. Mrs. and Miss still improve infernally 

on my hands. 

Set out next morning for Wauchope, the seat of my correspondent, 
Mrs. Scott — breakfast by the way with Dr. Elliot, an agreeable, good- 
hearted, climate-beaten old veteran, in the medical line ; now retired to a 
romantic but rather moorish place, on the banks of the Roole — he 
accompanies us almost to Wauchope — we traverse the country to the 
top of Bochester, the scene of an old encampment, and Woolee Hill. 

Wauchope. — Mr. Scott exactly the figure and face commonly given to 
Sancho Panca — very shrewd in his farming matters, and not unfrequcntly 
stumbles on what may be called a strong thing rather than a good thin^. 
Mrs. Scott all the sense, taste, intrepidity of face, and bold, critical 
decision, which usually distinguish female authors. Sup with Mr. Potts — 
agreeable party. Breakfast next morning with Mr. Somerville — the brnit 
of Miss Lindsay and my hardship, by means of the invention and malice 

of Miss . Mr. Somerville sends to Dr. Lindsay ; begging him and 

family to breakfast if convenient, but at all events to send Miss Lindsay ; 
accordingly Miss Lindsay only comes: I find Miss Lindsay would soon 
play the devil with me — I met with some little flattering attentions from 
her. Mrs. Somerville an excellent, motherly, agreeable woman, and a fine 



J 



THE BORDER TOUR. 



e 



571 



family. Mr. Ainslie and Mrs. vS. junrs., with Mr. , Miss Lindsay, and 

m\self, go to see Esther, a very remarkable woman for reciting poetry of all 
kmds, and sometimes making Scotch doggrel herself: she can repeat by 
heart almost everything she has ever read, particularly Pope's Homer 
from end to end ; has studied Euclid by herself; and, in short, is a woman 
of very extraordinary abilities. On conversing with her I find her fully 
equal to the character given of her. She is very much flattered that I 
send for her, and that she sees a poet who has "put out a book," as she 
says. She is, among other things, a great florist — and is rather past the 
meridian of once celebrated beauty. 

I walk in Esther's garden with Aliss Lindsay, and after some little chit- 
chat of the tender kind, I presented her' with a proof print of my Nob, 
which she accepted with something more tender than gratitude. She told 

me many little stories which Miss had retailed concerning her and 

me, with prolonging pleasure — God bless her! Was waited on by the 
magistrates, and presented with the freedom of the burgh. 

Took farewell of Jedburgh, with some melanchol}', disagreeable sensa- 
tions. — Jed, pure be thy crystal streams, and hallowed thy sylvan banks ! 
Sweet Isabella Lindsay, may peace dv/ell in thy bosom, uninterrupted 
except by the tumultuous throbbings of rapturous love ! That love-kind- 
ling eye must beam on another, not on me ; that graceful form must bless 
another's arms, not mine ! 

Kelso. — Dine with the farmers' club — all gentlemen, talking of high 
matters — each of them keeps a hunter from thirty to fifty pounds' value, 
and attends the fox-huntings in the country. Go out with Mr. Ker, one of 
the club, and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to lie — Mr. Ker a most gentlemanly, 
cle\er, handsome fellow, a widower with some fine children — his manner 
astonishingly like my dear old friend Robert Muir, in Kilmarnock — every- 
thing in Mr. Ker's most elegant — he otTers to accompany me in my English 
tour. Dine with Sir Alexander Don — a pretty clever fellow, but far from 
being a match for his divine lady. A very wet day. . . . Sleep at Stod- 
rig again ; and set out for Melrose — visit Dryburgh, a fine old mined abbey 
— still bad weather — cross Leader, and come up Tweed to Melrose — dine 
there, and visit that far-famed glorious ruin — come to Selkirk, upEttrick; 
the whole country hereabout, both on Tweed and Ettrick, remarkably stony. 

Monday. — Come to Inverleithing, a famous shaw, and in the vicinity of 
the 'palace of Traquair, where having dined, and drank some Galloway 
wKey, I here remain till to-morrow. Saw Elibanks and Elibraes, on the 
other side of the Tweed. 

Tuesday. — Drank tea yesternight at Pirn, with Mr. Horsburgh. 
Breakfasted to-day with Mr. Ballantyne of Hollowlee. Proposal for a 
four-horse team, to consist of Mr. Scott of Wauchope, Fittieland ; Logan 
of Logan, Fittiefurr ; Ballantine of Hollowlee, Forewynd ; Horsburgl^ of 
Horsburgh. Dine at a country inn, kept by a miller, in Earlston, the 
birth-place and residence of the celebrated Thomas a Rhymer — saw the 
ruins of his castle — come to Berrvwell. 




^ 572 T//E BORDER TOUR. 



Wednesday . — Dine at Dunse with the farmers' club-company — impos- 
sible to do them justice. Rev. Mr. Smith a famous punster, and Mr. Meikle 
a celelirated mechanic, and inventor of the threshing-mills. 

TJuirsday. — Breakfast at Berrywell, and walk into Dunse to see a famous 
knife made by a cutler there, and to be presented to an Italian prince. A 
pleasant ride with my friend Mr. Robert Ainslie and his sister to Mr. 
Thomson's, a man who has newly commenced farmer, and has married a 
Miss Patty Grieve, formerly a flame of Mr. Robert Ainslie's. Company — 
Miss Jacky Grieve, an amiable sister of Mrs. Thomson's, and Mr. Hood, 
an honest, worthy, facetious farmer in the neighbourhood. 

Friday. — Ride to Berwick — an idle town, rudely picturesque. Meet 
Lord Errol in walking round the walls — his lordship's flattering notice of 
me. Dine with Mr. Clunzie, merchant — nothing particular in company 
or conversation. Come up a bold shore, and over a wild country, to 
Eyemouth — sup and sleep at Mr. Grieve's. 

Saturday. — Spend the day at Mr. Grieve's — made a royal arch mason 
of St. Abb's Lodge. Mr. William Grieve, the oldest brother, a joyous, 
warm-hearted, jolly, clever fellow — takes a hearty glass, and sings a good 
song. Mr. Robert, his brother, and partner in trade, a good fellow, but 
says little. Take a sail after dinner. Fishing of all kinds pays tithes at 
Eyemouth. 

Sunday. — A Mr. Robinson, brewer at Ednam, sets out with us to Dunbar. 
The Miss Grieves very good girls — my hardship's heart got a brush from 
Miss Betsey. 

Mr. William Grieve's attachment to the family-circle so fond, that when 
he is out, which by the by is often the case, he cannot go to bed till he 

see if all his sisters are sleeping well Pass the famous Abbey of Cold- 

ingham, and Pease-bridge. Call at Mr. Sheriff's, where Mr. A. and I 
dine. Mr. S. talkative and conceited. I talk of love to Nancy the whole 
evening, while her brother escorts home some companions like himself. 
Sir James Hall of Dunglass, having heard of my being in the neighbour- 
hood, comes to Mr. Sheriff's to breakfast — takes me to see his fine scenery 
on the stream of Dunglass — Dunglass the most romantic, sweet place I 
ever saw — Sir James and his lady a pleasant happy couple. He point.s out 
a walk for which he has an uncommon respect, as it was made by an atunt 
of his, to whom he owes much. 

Miss will accompany me to Dunbar, by way of making a parade 

of me as a sweetheart of hers, among her relations. She mounts an old 
cart-horse, as huge and as lean as a house ; a rusty old side-saddle, with- 
out girth or stirrup, but fastened on with an old pillion-girth ; herself as 
fine as hands could make her, in cream-coloured riding clothes, hat and 
feather, &c. I, ashamed of my situation, ride like the devil, and almost 
shake her to pieces on old Jolly — get rid of her by refusing to call at her 
uncle's with hen 




3S 



THE BORDER TOUR. 



-b£. 



573 



1 



Passed through the most glorious corn-country I ever ■saw, till I reach 
Dunbar, a neat little town. — Dine with Provost Fall, an eminent merchant 
and most respectable character, but undescribable, as he exhibits no marked 
traits. Mrs. Fall a genius in painting ; fully more clever in the fine arts 
and sciences than my friend Lady Waucliope, without her consummate 
assurance of her own abilities. — Call with Mr. Robinson (who, by the by, 
I find to be a worthy, much-respected man, very modest ; warm, social 
heart, which with less good sense than his would be perhaps, with the 
children of prim precision and pride, rather inimical to that respect which 
is man's due from man ) — with him I call on Miss Clark, a maiden, in the 
Scotch phrase, " guid enough, but no brent new " : a clever woman, with 
tolerable pretensions to remark and wit ; while time had blown the 
blushing bud of bashful modesty into the flower of easy confidence. 
She wanted to see what sort of raree sliow an author was, and to let him 
know, that though Dunbar was but a little town, yet it was not destitute 
of people of parts. 

Breakfast next morning at Skateraw, at Mr. Lee's, a farmer of great 
note. Mr. Lee an excellent, hospitable, social fellow, rather oldish ; warm- 
hearted and chatty — a most judicious, sensible farmer. Mr. Lee detains 
me till next morning. Company at dinner — my Rev. acquaintance Dr. 
Bowmaker, a reverend, rattling old fellow ; two sea-lieutenants ; a cousin 
of the landlord's, a fellow whose looks are of that kind which deceived me 
in a gentleman at Kelso, and has often deceived me — a goodly handsome 
figure and face, which incline one to give them credit for parts which they 
have not ; Mr. Clarke, a much cleverer fellow, but whose looks, a little 
cloudy, and his appearance, rather ungainly, with an every-day observer 
may prejudice the opinion against him; Dr. Brown, a medical young 
gentleman from Dunbar, a fellow whose face and manners are open and 

engaging. Leave Skateraw for Dunse next day, along with Collector . 

a ladof slender abilities and bashfully diffident to an extreme. 

Found Miss Ainslie, the amiable, the sensible, the good-humoured, the 
sweet Miss Ainslie, all alone at Berrywell. Heavenly powers, who know 
the weakness of human hearts, support mine ! What happiness must I see 
only to remind me that I cannot enjoy it ! 

Lammermuir hills, from East Lothian to Dunse, very wild. Dine with 
the farmers' club at Kelso. Sir John Hume and Mr. Lumsden there, but 
nott ing worth remembrance when the following circumstance is con- 
sidered — I walk into Dunse before dinner, and "out to Berrywell in the 
evening with Miss Ainslie — how ill-bred, how frank, how good she is 
Charming Rachael ! may thy bosom never be wrung by the evils of this 
life of sorrows, or by the villany of this world's sons ! 

Thursday. — Mr. Kerand I set out to dine at Mr. Hood's on our way to 
England. 

I am taken extremely ill, with strong feverish symptoms, and take a 
servant of Mr. Hood's to watch me all night — embittering remorse scares 
my lancv at the gloomy forebodings of death. I am determined to live for 
the future in such a manner as not to be scared at the approach of death : 



71= 




^b±J 



574 THE BORDER TOUR. 



I am sure I could meet him with indifference, but for "the something 
beyond the grave." Mr. Hood agrees to accompany us to England if we 
will wait till Sunday. 

Friday. — I go with Mr. Hood to see a roup of an unfortunate farmer's 
stock — rigid economy and decent industry, do you preserve me from 
being the principal di-atnatis persoia in such a scene of horror ! 

Meet my good old friend Mr. Ainslie, who calls on Mr. Hood in the 
evening to take farewell of my hardship. This day I feel myself warm 
with sentiments of gratitude to the Great Preserver of men, who has kindly 
restored me to health and strength once more. 

A pleasant walk with my young friend Douglas Ainslie, a sweet, 
modest, clever young feilow. 

Sunday, i']th May. — Cross Tweed, and traverse the moors through a 
wild country till I reach Alnwick — Alnwick Castle a seat of the Duke of 
Northumberland, furnished in a most princely manner. — A Mr. Wilkin, 
agent of his Grace's, shows us the house and policies — Mr. Wilkin a 
discreet, sensible, ingenious man. 

Monday. — Come, still througli by-vva\s, to Warkworth, where we dine. 
Hermitage and old castle. Warkworth situated very picturesque, with 
Coquet Island, a small rocky spot, the seat of an old monastery, facing it a 
little in the sea ; and the small but romantic river Coquet running through 
it. Sleep at Morpeth, a pleasant enough little town, and on next day to 
Newcastle. Meet with a very agreeable, sensible fellow, a Mr. Chatto.\, 
who shows us a great many civilities, and who dines and sups with us, 

Wednesday . — Left Newcastle early in the morning, and rode over a line 
country to Hexham to breakfast — from Hexham to Wardrue, the celebrated 
Spa, where we slept. 

Thursday. — Reach Longtown to dine, and part there with my good 
friends Messrs. Hood and Ker — a hiring day in Longtown- — I am uncom- 
monly happy to see so many young folks enjoying life. I come to Carlisle. 
(Meet a strange enough romantic adventure by the way, in falling in with 
a girl and her married sister : the girl, after some overtures of gallantry on 
my side, sees me a little cut with the bottle, and offers to take me in for a 
Gretna-green affair. I not being such a gull as she imagines, make an 
appointment with her, by way of vive la bagatelle, to hold a conference on 
it when we reach town. I meet her in town and give her a brash of 
caressing and a bottle of cyd-jr ; but finding herself un pen troinpe in her 
man she sheers off.) Next day I meet my good friend Mr. Mitchell, and 
walk with him round the town and its environs, and through his printing- 
works, &c. — four or five hundred people employed, many of them women 
and children. Dine with Mr. Mitchell, and leave Carlisle. Come by the 
coast to Annan. Overtaken on the way by a curious old fish of a shoe 
maker, and miner from Cumberland mines. 

\Here the Manuscript abruptly terminates .'] 




w 



^ 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 



[Nicol, Burns's companion on this Highland expedition, was then an under 
teacher in the High School of Edinburgh. He was a Dumfriesshire man, of hum- 
ble birth, possessed considerable natural ability and scholarship, but was of a 
somewhat coarse, hot-tempered character.] 

2^i/2 .'Ingnst. 1787. — I leave Edinburgh for a northern tour, in company 
with my good friend Mr. Nicol, whose originality of humour promises 
me much entertainment. Linlithgow — a fertile improved country — West 
Lothian. The more elegance and luxury among the farmers, I always 
observe, in equal proportion the rudeness and stupidity of the peasantry. 
This remark I have made all over the Lothians, Merse, Ro.xburgh, &c. 
For this, among other reasons, I think that a man of roinantic taste, a 
"man of feeling," will be better pleased with the poverty, but intelligent 
minds, of the peasantry in Ayrshire (peasantry the\- are all below the 
justice of peace) than the opulence of a club of Merse farmers, when at 
the same time he considers the vandalism of their plough-folks, &c. I 
carry this idea so far, that an uninclosed, half-improven country is to me 
actually more agreeable, and gives me more pleasure as a prospect, 
than a country cultivated like a garden. — Soil about Linlithgow light 
and thin. The town carries the appearance of rude, decayed grandeur — 
charmingly rural, retired situation. The old royal palace a tolerably fine, 
but melancholy, ruin — sweetly situated on a small elevation; by the brink 
of a loch. Shown the room where the beautiful, injured Mary Queen of 
Scots was born — a pretty good old Gothic church. The infamous stool 
of repentance standing, in the old Romish way, on a lofty situation. 

What a poor, pimping business is a Presbyterian place of worship ; 
dirty, narrow, and squalid ; stuck in a corner of old popish grandeur such 
as Linlithgow, and much more, Melrose ! Ceremony and show, if judi- 
ciously thrown in, absolutely necessary for the bulk of mankind, both in 
religious and civil matters. — Dine — go to my friend Smith's, at Avon,, 
printfield — find nobody but Mrs. Miller, an agreeable, sensible, modest, 
good body; as useful but not so ornamental as Fielding's Miss Western — 
not rigidly polite a la Francais, but easy, hospitable, and housewifely. 

An old iady from Paisley, a Mrs. Lawson, whom 1 promise to call for 
in Paisley : like old lady W , and still more like Mrs. C , her con- 
versation is pregnant with strong sense and just remark, but, like them, a 
certain air of self-importance and a duresse in the eye seem to indicate, as 
the Ayrshire wife observed of her cow, that " she had a mind o' her ain." 



^ 



S 



-^ 



576 T/7£ HIGHLAND TOUR. 

Pleasant view of Dumfermline and the rest of the fertile coast of Fife, 
as we go down to that dirty, ugly place, Burrowstones — see a horse-race 
and call on a friend of Mr. NicoPs, a Bailie Cowan, of whotn I know too 
little to attempt his portrait — come through the rich carse of Falkirk to 
pass the night. Falkirk nothing remarkable except the tomb of Sir John 
the Graham, over which, in the succession of time, four stones have been 
placed. Camelon, the ancient metropolis of the Picts, now a small village 
in the neighbourhood of Falkirk. Cross the grand canal to Carron — 
come past Larbert, and admire a fine monument of cast-iron erected by 
Mr. Bruce, the African traveller, to his wife. 

Pass Dunipace, a place laid out with fine taste — a charming amphitheatre, 
bounded by Denny village, and pleasant seats down the way to Dunipace. 

— The Carron running down the bosom of the whole makes it one of the 
most charming little prospects I have seen. 

Dine at Auchinbowie — Mr. Monro an excellent, worthy old man — Miss 
Monro an amiable, sensible, sweet young woman, much resembling Mrs. 
Grierson. Come to Bannockburn — shown the old house where James 
111. finished so tragically his unfortunate life. The field of Bannockburn 

— the hole where glorious Bruce set his standard. Here no Scot can pass 
uninterested. I fancy to myself that I see my gallant, heroic countrymen 
coming o'er the hill and down upon the plunderers of their country, the 
murderers of their fathers, noble revenge and just hate glowing in every 
vein, striding more and more eagerly as they approach the oppressive, 
insulting, blood-thirsty foe ! I see them meet in gloriously-triumphant 
congratulation on the victorious field, exulting in their heroic royal leader 
and rescued liberty and independence ! — Come to Stirling. 

Monday. — Go to Harvieston. Go to see Caudron Hnn, and Rumbling 
brig, and Diel's mill. Return in the evening. Supper — Messrs. Doig, 
the schoolmaster; Bell; and Captain Forrester of the castle. Doig a 
queerish figure, and something of a pedant — Bell a joyous fellow, who 
sings a good song — Forrester a merry, swearing kind of man. with a 
dash of the sodger. 

Tuesday Morning. — Breakfast with Captain Forrester — Ochel hills — 
Devon river — Forth and Tieth — Allan river — Strathallan, a fine country, 
but little improved — cross Earn to Crieff — dine, and go to Arbruchil — 
cold reception at Arbruchil — a most romantically pleasant ride up Earn, by 
Auchtertyre and Comrie, to Arbruchil — sup at Crieff. 

IVednesday Morning. — Leave Crieff — Glen Amond — Amond river — 
Ossian's grave — Loch Fruoch — Glenquaich — landlord and landlady re- 
markable characters — Taymouth described in rhyme — meet the Hon. 
Charles Townshend. 

Thursday. — Come down Tay to Dunkeld — Glenlyon House — Lyon 
river — Druids' temple — three circles of stones, the outermost sunk : 
the second has thirteen stones remaining, the innermost has eight ; two 



fe 



THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 



577 



large detached ones, like a gate, to the south-east — say prayers in it — pass 
Taybridge — Aberfeldy — described in rhyme — Castle Menzies — Inver — 
Dr. Stewart — sup. 

Friday. — Walk with Mrs. Stewart and Beard to liirnam top — fine 
prospect down Tay — Craigieburn hills — hermitage on the Branwater, 
with a picture of Ossian — breakfast with Dr. Stewart — Neil Gow plays — 
a short, stout-built, honest Highland figure, with his grayish hair shed on 
his honest social brow; an interesting face, marking strong sense, kind 
openheartedness, mixed with unmistrusting simplicity — visit his house — 
Marget Gow. 

Ride up Tummel river to Blair — Fascally a beautiful romantic nest — 
wild grandeur of the pass of Gilliecrankie — visit the gallant Lord Dundee's 
stone. 

Blair — Sup with the Duchess — easy and happy from the manners of the 
family — coniirmed in my good opinion of my friend Walker. 

Saturday. — Visit the scenes round Blair — fine, but spoiled with bad 
taste — Tilt and Gairie rivers — Falls on the Tilt — heather seat — ride in 
company with Sir William Murray and Mr. Walker, to Loch Tummel — 
meanderings of the Rannach, which runs through quondam Struan 
Robertson's estate, from Loch Rannach to Loch Tummel. Dine at Blair : 
company — General Murray; Captain Murray, an honest tar; Sir William 
Murray, an honest, worthy man, but tormented with the hypochondria: 
Mrs. Graham, belle ct aimable ; Miss Catchcart ; Mrs. Murray, a painter; 
Mrs. King; Duchess and fine family, the ^L'lrquis, Lords James, Edward, 
and Robert. Ladies Charlotte, Emilia, and children dance. Sup — Mr. 
Graham of Fintry. 

Come up the Garrie — Falls of Bruar — Daldecairoch — Dalwhinnie — ■ dine 

— snow on the hills seventeen feet deep — no corn from Loch Gairie to 
Dalwhinnie — cross the Spey, and come down the stream to Pitnin 

— Straths rich — les environs picturesque — Craigow hill — Ruthven of 
Badenoch — barracks — wild ancl magnificent — Rothemurche on the other 
side, and Glenniore — Grant of Rothemurche's poetry, told me by the 
Duke of Gordon — Strathspey, rich and romantic. Breakfast at Aviemore, 
a wild spot — dine at Sir James Grant's — Lady Grant a sweet, plea.sant 
body — come through mist and darkness to Dulsie to lie. 

Tuesday. — Findhorn river — rocky banks — come on to Castle Cawdor, 
vviiere Macbeth murdered King Duncan — saw the bed in which King 
Duncan was stabbed — dine at Kilravock — Mrs. Rose, sen., a true 
chieftain's wife — Fort George — Inverness. 



Wednesday . — Loch Ness — Braes of Ness ■ 
Fyers — Urquhart Castle and Strath. 



■General's hut — Falls of 



^' 



Thursday. — Come over Culloden Muir — reflections on the field of l)attle 
-breakfast at Kilravock — old Mrs. Rose, sterling sense, warm heart. 



TR- 




578 THE I/IGRLAND TOUR. 

strong passions, and honest pride, all in an uncommon degree — Mrs. Rose, 
jun., a little milder than the mother; this perhaps owing to her being 
younger — Mr. Grant, minister at Calder, resembles Mr. Scott at Inver- 
ieithing — Mrs. Rose and Mrs. Grant accompany us to Kildrummie — two 
young ladies : Miss Rose, who sung two Gaelic songs, beautiful and lovely ; 
Miss Sophia Brodie, most agreeable and amiable ; both of them gende, 
mild, the sweetest creatures on earth, and happiness be with them ! — 
Dine at Nairn — fall in with a pleasant enough gentleman, Dr. Stewart, 
who had been long abroad with his father in the Forty-five ; and Mr. 
P^alconer, a spare, irascible, warm-hearted Norland, and a Nonjuror — 
lirodie-house to lie. 

Friday. — Forres — famous stone at Forres — Mr. Brodie tells me that 
the muir where Shakespeare lays Macbeth's witch-meeting is still haunted — 
that the country folks won't pass it by night. . . . 

Venerable ruins of Elgin Abbey — a grander effect at first glance than 
Melrose, but not near so beautiful — cross Spey to Fochabers — fine palace, 
worthy of the generous proprietor. Dine — company, Duke and Duchess, 
Ladies Charlotte and Magdeline, Col. Abercrombie and Lady, Mr. Gordon 

and Mr. , a clergyman, a venerable, aged figure : the Duke makes me 

happier than ever great man did — noble, princely, yet mild, condescending, 
and alTable. gay and kind — the Duchess witty and sensible — God bless 
them ! 

Come to Cullen to lie — hitherto the country is sadly poor and unim- 
proven. 

Come to Aberdeen — meet with Mr. Chalmers, printer, a facetious fellow 
— Mr. Ross, a line fellow, like Professor Tytler — Mr. Marshal, one of the 
poetcE iimiores — Mr. SheritTs, author of " Jamie and Bess," a little decrepid 
body with some abilities — Bishop Skinner, a Nonjuror, son of the author 
of " Tullochgorum," a man whose mild venerable manner is the most 
marked of any in so young a man — Professor Gordon, a good-natured, 
jolly-looking professor' — Aberdeen, a lazy town — near Stonhive, the coast 
a good dearromantic — meet my relations — Robert Burns, writer, in Ston- 
hive, one of those who love fun, a gill, and a punning joke, and have not 
a bad heart — his wife a sweet hospitalDle body, without any affectation of 
what is called town-breeding. 

Tuesday. — Breakfast with Mr. Burns — lie at Lawrence Kirk — album 

library — Mrs. a jolly, frank, sensible, love-inspiring widow — Howe 

of the Mearns, a rich, cultivated, but still uninclosed country. 

Wednesday . — Cross North Esk river, and a rich country to Craigow. 

Go to Montrose, that finely-situated, handsome town — breakfast at 
Muthie, and .sail along that wild rocky coast, and see the famous caverns, 
particularly the Gairiepot — land and dine at Arbroath — stately ruins of 
Arbroath Abbev — come to Dundee, through a fertile country — Dundee a 



^ 




THE HIGHLAND TOUR. 



.S79 



low-lying but pleasant town — old steeple — Tayfrith — Broughty Castle, a 
finely situated ruin, jutting into the Tay. 

Friday. — Breakfast with the Miss Scotts — Miss Bess Scott like Mrs. 
Greenlield ; my hardship almost in love with her — come through the rich 
harvests and fine hedge-rows of the carse of Gowrie, along the romantic 
margin of the Grampian hills, to Perth — fine, fruitful, hilly, woody country 
round Perth. 

Saturday Morning. — Leave Perth — come up Strathearn to Endermay 
— fine, fruitful, cultivated strath ^ — the scene of '• Bessie Bell and Mary 
Gray," near Perth — fine scenery on the banks of the May — Mrs. Belcher, 
gawcie, frank, affable, fond of rural sports, hunting, &c. — lie at Kinross — 
reflections in a fit of the colic. 



Sunday. — Pass through a cold, barren country to Queensferry — dine 
— cross the ferry, and on to Edinburgh. 






'Jh 



1 



NOTES. 



C |_-5 



NOTES. 



Page I. The tale of the " Twa Dogs," Gil- 
bert Bums writes, was composed after the reso- 
lution of publishing was nearly taken. Robert 
had a dog which he called Luath, that was a 
great favourite. The dog had been killed by the 
wanton cruelty of some person the night before 
my father's death. Robert said to me, that he 
should like to confer such immortality as he 
could bestow on his old friend Luath, and that 
he had a great mind to introduce something 
into the book, under the title of .Stanzas to the 
Memory of a Quadruped Friend; but this plan 
was given up for the poem as it now stands. 
Csesar was merely the creature of the poet's 
imagination, created for the purpose of holding 
chat with his favourite Luath. 

Page I, /. 26. Luath, CuchuUin's dog in 
Ossian's Fingal.. R. B. 

Page 2, /. 8. Var. In all editions up to 
1794 — 

Till tireri at last wi many a farce, 
They sat them down upon their a — . 

Page 3, /. 14. Burns alludes to the factor in 
the autobiographical sketch communicated to 
Dr. John Moore. 

" My father's generous master died : the farm 
proved a ruinous bargain: and, to clench the 
misfortune, we fell into the hands of a factor 
who sat for the picture I have drawn of one in 
my tale of the ' Twa Dogs ' . . ■ my indigna- 
tion yet boils at the recollection of the scoundrel 
factor's insolent threatening letters, which used 
to set us all in tears." 

Page 8, /. 10. In the first edition the stanza 
closed as follows : — 

Wae worth them fort! 
"While healths gae round to him, wha tij^ht, 
Gies famous sport. 

Page 9, /. 2. Var. " Humble thanks " in 
edition of 1794. 

Page 9, /. 25. This was wrote before the Act 
anent the Scotch Distilleries, of Session, 1786: 
for which Scotland and the author return their 
most grateful thanks. R. B. 

Page 9, /. 35. I'af. " Simple Poet's 
Prayers" in edition of 1794- 

Page II, /. I. The allusion in the text is pri- 
marily to Hugh Montgomerie of Coilsfield, 
twelfth Earl of Eglintoune. 

Page II, /. 2. James Boswellof Auchinleck, 
Johnson's biographer. 

Page II, /. 17. George Dempster. Esq., of 
Dunnichen. 

Page II, /. 18. Sir Adam Fergusson of Kil- 
kerran, Bart. 



Page II, /. 20. The Marquis of Graham 
eldest son of the Duke of Montrose. 

Page II, /. 22. The Right Hon. Henry Dun- 
das, Trf-asurer of the Navy, and M. P. for the 
city of Edinburgh. 

Page II, /. 24. Lord Frederick Campbell, 
second brother of the Duke of Argyle, and Hay 
Campbell, Lord Advocate of Scotland. 

Page 12, /. 13. The Earl of Chatham, Pitt's 
father, was the second son of Robert Pitt of 
Boconnock, in the county of Cornwall. 

Page 12, /. 15. A worthy old hostess of the 
author's in Mauchline, where he sometimes 
studies politics over a glass of guid old Scotch 
drink. R. B. Nanse was surprised at her house 
and name being thus dragged before the public. 
She declared that Burns had never taken three 
half-mutchkins in her house in all his life. 

Page 13, /. 37. In edition of 1794 this stanza 
is altered as follows : — 

" Scotland, mv auld respected niither ! 
Tho' whiles ye moistify your leather, 
Till when ye speak, ye aiblins blether; 

Yet deil mak matter ! 

P'reedom and Whiskey gang thegither, 

Tak aft your whither." 

This tasteless alteration (which we feel con- 
vinced was not made by the poet) was not 
adjpted in any subsequent edition of the Poems. 

Page 14, /. I. Holy Fair is a common 
phrase in the west of Scotland for a sacramental 
occasion. R. B. 

Page IS, /. 39. Var. 

Bet B — r there, an' twa-three whores. 

Racer Jess was a half-witted daughter of 
Poosie Nansie. She was a great pedestrian, 
and died at Mauchline in 181 3. 

Page 15, /. 43. Var. An' there, a batch o' 
wabster brawds. 

Page -id, 1.1. Var. .'Vn' ithers on their claes. 

Page 16, /. 22. Var. 

Wi' tidings o' salvation. 

The change in the text was made at the sug- 
gestion of Dr. Blair. 

Pa^e i6, /. 25. Var. The vera sight 



Var. Tae hell wi' speed 



Sawnie's face. 

Page 16, I. 
had sent him. 

Page 16, /. 41. Var. 

Georrtie begins his cauld harangues. 

The Rev. George Smith, minister at Galston. 

Page 16, /. 42. Var. On practice and of 




584 



-tl 



^ 



NOTES. 



Page 17, /. 12. Var. 

Forsairy Willie waii-T-m. 

The Rev. William Peebles, minister of New- 
ton-upou-Ayr. 

Page 17, I. 17. A street so called, which 
(aces the tent in Mauchline. R. B. 

Page 17, /. 19. The Rev. W. Miller, assist- 
ant preacher at Anchinleck, and afterwards 
minister of Kilmaurs, near Kilmarnock. He 
was of short stature. 

Page 18, /. 13. Var. 

Uliick .lock is ua spiiiriii. 

The Rev. John Russel, minister of the Chapel 
of Ease, Kilmarnock. 

Page 18, /. 17. Shakespeare's Hamlet. R. B. 

Page 18, /. 32. Var. How yill gaed round 
in jugs an' caups. 

Page \?>,l. "it. Var. Then comes a gaucie, 
gash guidwife. 

Page 19. The composition of " Death and 
Doctor Hornbook " was suggested by the cir- 
ciunstances related in the Preface. It was 
composed rapidly. Burns met the apothecary 
at a meeting of the Tarbolton Masonic lodce, 
and the next afternoon he repeated the entire 
poem to Gilbert. With reference to its compo- 
sition, Mr. Allan Cunningham supplies the fol- 
lowing tradition, which is nonsense on the face 
of it. 

"On his way home" — from the Masonic meet- 
ing — "the Poet found a neighbor lying tipsy 
by the road-side ; the idea of Death flashed on 
his fancy, and seating himself on the parapet of 
a bridge, he composed the poem, fell asleep, and 
when awakened by the morning sun, he recol- 
lected it all, and wrote it down on reaching 
Mossgiel." 

The laughter occasioned by the publication 
of the satire drove, it is said, John Wilson, 
schoolmaster and apothecary, out of the county. 
He ultimately settled in Glasgow, became Ses- 
sion Clerk of the Gorbals, and died in 1839. 
" Death and Doctor Hornbook " first appeared 
in the Edinburgh edition of the poems. 

Pa^e 19, /. 29. In all the editions up to 1794 
this line stood: 



■ liaith I 




Page 19, /. 37. Mr. Robert Wright, in his 
Life of ^lajor-General James Wolfe, states that 
" Hell " was the name given to the arched pas- 
sage in Dublin which led into the area on the 
south side of Christ Church, and east of the law 
courts. A representation of the Devil, carved 
in oak, stood above the entrance. 

Page 20, /. 32. This rencounter happened in 
seed-time, 1785. R. B. 

Page ■ii, I. 9. An epidemical fever was then 
raging in that country. R. B. 

Page 21, /. 21. This gentleman, Dr. Horn- 
book, is, professionally, a brother of the Sove- 
reign Order of the Ferula, but by intuition and 
inspiration is at once an apothecary, surgeon, 
and physician. R. B. 



Page 21, I. 25. Buchan's Domestic Medi- 
cine. R. B. 

/'a^f 22, /. 31. The grave-digger. R. B. 

Page 24. The occasion of this poem was 
the erection of a new bridge across the river 
at Ayr, to supersede the inconvenient structure 
built in the reign of Alexander HI. Mr. Bal- 
lantine, Burns' patron, and chief magistrate of 
the town, was mainly instrumental in raising 
funds for the work; and to him the poem is 
dedicated. 

Page 25, /. 15. A noted tavern at tlie Auld 
Brig end. R. B. 

Page 25, /. 20. Var. 

Till' ilrowsy steeple clock hail numbered two. 

The two steeples. R. B. The " Dungeon 
Clock" in this, and the " Wallace Tow'r" in 
the following line. 

Page 25, /. 28. Var. 
When, lo 1 before our Bardie's wond'ring e'en 
The Hrigs of .\yr's twa sprites are sceu. 

Page 25, /. 31. The Gos-hawk or Falcon. 
R. B. 

Page id, I. II & 12. This couplet — the most 
picturesque and memorable in the poem — does 
not occur in the MS. copy. 

Page 26, /. 15. A noted ford, just above the 
Auld Brig. R. B. 

Page 26, /. 30. Var. 

Or haunteii Garpal draws its feeble soiin-e. 

The banks of Garpal water is one of the few 
places in the west of Scotland where those fancy- 
scaring beings known by the name of Ghaists 
still continue pertinaciously to inhabit. R. B. 

Page 16,1. T,!. Var. Aroused by blust'ring 
winds an' spotted thowes. 

Page 26, I. 35. "Glenbuck," the source of 
the river Ayr. R. B. 

Page 26, /. 36. " Ratton-Key," a small land- 
ing-place above the large key. R. B. 

Page 28, /. 3. Var. To liken them to your 
auld warld bodies. 



Page 28, /. 4.. y 
arisons are odious. 



needs say 1 



Page 28, /. 14. Var. Plain, kind stupidity 
slept kindly in to aid them. 

Page 28, /. 25. A well-known performer of 
Scottish music on the violin. R. B. 

Page 28, /. 49. A stream near Coilsficld. 

Page li, I. $1. Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 

Page 29, I. 2. The seat of Professor Dugald 
Stewart. 

Page 29. " The Ordination " was composed 
on the Rev. Mr. Mackinlay being called to Kil- 
marnock. It was first printed in the second 
edition of the Poems. 

Page 29, /. 17. Alluding to a scoffing ballail 
which was made on the admission of the lati- 
reverend and worthy Mr. Lindsay to the Laigli 
Kirk. R. B. 




^ 



NOTES. 



585 



Page 29, /. 3, 2 col. Var. 
Formula and confession : 
An' lay your hands upon his head, 
An' seal his high eoniniission, 
The holy floclt to tent an' teed. 

Page 30, /. 15, 2 col. I'ar. 

Will clap him in the torture. 

Page 30; /. 21,2 col. " New Light " is a cant 
phrase in the west of Scotland for those reli- 
gious opinions which Dr. Taylor of Norwich 
has so strenuously defended. R. B. 

Page 30, /. 28. With reference to this piece 
Hums wrote to a correspondent: — " Warm re- 
c:nllcLli(m i)f au ali>ent friend presses so hard 
u]iiin my liuari, ili.ii I ^cinl him the prefixed bag- 
atelle, p'lcas.-il with the thou'.;ht that it will greet 
the man of my h-isdin, and he a kind of distant 
language of friendship. ... It was merely an 
extemporaneous production, on a wager with 
Mr. Hamilton that 1 would not produce a poem 
on the subject in a given time." The Rev. Mr. 
•Steven was afterwards minister of one of the 
Scotch' churches in London — where, in 1790, 
William Burns, the Poet's brother, heard him 
preach — and he finally settled at Kilwinning in 
Ayrshire, where he died in 1824. 

Page 31. Gilbert Burns says: " It was, 1 
think, in the winter of 1784, as we were going 
together with carts for coal to the family fire 
(and I coidd yet point out the particular spot), 
that the author first repeated to me the " Address 
to the Deil." The curious idea of such an 
address was suggested to him by turning over 
in his mind the many ludicrous accounts and 
representations we have from various quarters 
of this august personage." 

Page 32, /. 13. This stanza was originally as 
follows : — 

Lan- svne i.i K.l.ns ln.p|>v -.-.■n.'. 

Wlu'li'stnippiir \,\a\u^Xa\^ «.-rc--rceii, 

ATld Kvewii- likr inv r.l,.:iii. 



Pat;e 32, /. 11, 2 col. Vide Milton, Book vi. 
R. B. 

Page 32, /. 29. This was one of Burns' ear- 
liest poems, the first indication of that peculiar 
moral hmnour of which the " Twa Dogs " is the 
finest example. It was written before 1784, and 
Gilbert Burns informed Dr. Currie that "the 
circumstances of the poor sheep were pretty 
much as he has described them : he had, partly 
by way of frolic, bought a ewe and two Iambs 
from a neighbour, and she was tethered in a field 
adjoining the house at Lochlea. He and I were 
going out with our teams, and our two younger 
brothers to drive for us, at mid-day, when Hugh 
Wilson, a curious-looking, awkward lad, clad in 
plaiding, came to us with much anxiety in his 
face, with the information that the ewe had 
entangled herself in the tether, and was lying 
in the ditch. Robert was much tickled with 
H'lghoc's appearance and postures on the occa- 
si >n. Poor Mailie was set to rights, and when 



we returned from the plough in the evening he 
repeated to me her ' Death and Dying Words ' 
pretty much in the way they now stand." 

Page 32, /. 34. A neibor herd callan. R. B. 
" In a copy of this poem in the Poet's handwrit- 
ing, possessed by Miss Grace Aiken, Ayr, a 
more descriptive note is here given. ' Hughoc 
was an odd, glowran, gapin' callan, about three- 
fourths as wise as other folk.' " Chambers. 



Page 33, I- 
/illy written : - 



col. This stanza was origin- 



She was the tlower o' Fairlie lambs, 



O' jfailie dead. 



the hail 



Page 34. Mr. Jaines Smith was, when this 
epistle was written, a shopkeeper in IMauch- 
line. He afterwards removed to Avon near 
Linlithgow, where he established a calico-print- 
ing manufactory. Being unsuccessful in his 
speculations, he emigrated to the West Indies, 
where he died. 



Page 35, /. 19, 2 col. George Dempste 
of Dunnichen. 



, Esq. 



Page 36. Certain of Burns' friends — Mrs. 
Dunlop, and Mrs. Stewart of Stair — con- 
sidered the " Dream " to contain perilous stuff. 
These ladies, it is said, vainly solicited the Poet 
to omit it in the second edition of his poems. 
The " Dream," if not a high, is a very charac- 
teristic effort : there never was an easier hand- 
gallop of verse. 

Page 36, /. 14, 2 col. An allusion to the loss 
of the North American colonies. 

Pc^gf 37i I. 7- " On the supplies for the Navy 
being voted, Spring 1786, Captain Macbride 
counselled some changes in that force, parti- 
cularly the giving up of sixty-four gun-ships, 
which occasioned a good deal of discussion." 
Chambers. 

Page 37, /. 35. Charles James Fox. 

Page yi, I. 6, 2 col. Frederick, Bishop of 
Osnaburg, afterwards Duke of York. 

Page 37, /. 15, 2 col. William, afterwards 
Duke of Clarence, and King William IV. 

Page 37, /. 17, 2 col. Alluding to the news- 
paper account of a certain royal sailor's amour. 
R. B. 

Page 38. Duan, a term of Ossian's for the 
different divisions of a digressive poem. See 
his " Cath-Loda," vol. ii. of McPherson's trans- 
lation. R. B. 

Page 38, /. 27, 2 col. This line supplies a cu- 
rious instance of the fluctuations of Burns' mind 
and pa.ssion. It was originally written as it 
stands in the text, but in the bitter feeling in- 
duced by the destruction of the marriage lines 
he had given to Jean Armour he transferred 




586 



NOTES. 



the compliment to the reigning favourite of the 
hour. In the first edition the line stood — 

And such a leg ! my Bess, I ween. 
In the Edinburgh edition, the old affecHon being 
in the ascendant again, the line was restored to 
its original shape. 

Page 39, /. 19. This and the six following 
stanzas appeared for the first time in the second 
edition. 

Page 39, /. 26. The Wallaces. R. B. 
Page 39, /. I, 2 col. William Wallace. R. B. 
Pa^e 39, /. 2, 2 col. Adam Wallace of 
Richardton, cousin of the immortal preserver 
of .Scottish independence. R. B. 

Page 39, /. 3, 2 col. Wallace, Laird of 
Craigie, who was second in command, under 
Douglas, Earl of Ormund, at the famous battle 
on the banks of the Sark, fought anno 1448. 
That glorious victory was principally owing to 
the judicious conduct and intrepid valor of the 
gallant Laird of Craigie, who died of his wounds 
after the action. R. B. 

Page 39, /. 7, 2 col. Coilus, King of the 
Picts, from whom the district of Kyle is said to 
take its name, lies buried, as tradition says, near 
the family seat of the Montgomeries of Coils- 
field, where his burial-place is still shown. R. B. 
Page 39, /. 13, 2 col. Barskimming, the seat 
of the Lord Justice Clerk. R. B. (Sir Thomas 
Miller of Glenlee, afterwards President of the 
Court of Session). 

Page 39, /. 19, 2 col. Catrine, the seat of the 
late Doctor, and present Professor, Stewart. 
R. B. 

Page 39, /. 25, 2 col. Colonel Fullarton. R. B. 

Page 41, /. 18, 2 col. In the Appendix to the 

second volume of Mr. Robert Chambers' " Life 

and Works of Burns " are printed the following 

additional stanzas of the " Vision," taken from a 

MS. in the possession of Mr. Dick, bookseller, 

Ayr. After the i8th stanza of printed copies : — 

With secret throes I mark'd that earth, 

That cottage, witness of my birth; 

And near I saw, bold issumg forth, 

In youthful pride, 
A Lindsay, race of noble worth, 
Filmed far and wide. 

Where, hid behind a spreading wood. 
An ancient Pict-built mansion stood, 
I spied, among an angel brood, 

A female pair; 
Sweet shone theirTiigh maternal blood 

And father's air. 

An ancient tower to memory bnnight 
How Dettingen's bold hero fought ; 
Still, far from sinkin" into nought. 

It owns a lord 
Who "far in western" climates fought 

With trusty sword. 

There, where a sceptred Pictish shade 
Stallt'd round hi.s ashes lowly laid, 
I saw a martial race portray'd 



The sodger sparkled in his eye, 
A diamjnd water; 

I blest that noble badge with joy 
That owned me frater.i 



fter the 20th stanza :- 


_ 




Near by arns- n )n:in«i 


M, fillf 




Not rustic Mil . 

With i . . 
Butth'a,,ci,.i.; ■ ..1 


. .1 


il<-dnine 


Imourncdtli. i-i 
ToseewlK'i- h .. . " 
But other 111 M.i 

Tliat X 
There natun- ^■ 

FUII.I - : . 


: i .:l 


.,.■ dealt, 




.Ifett, 


Hail natun- 1 M 1 
Warmfrieii.l-:. 
Love, de<ir. 111. :i ' ■ 




iij,' than death! 
liindling wrath 
lireath 



The coldest heart. 
After the 21st: — 

Where Lugar leaves his moorland plaid, 
Wlicre lately Want was idly laid, 
I marked busy, bustling Trade 

In fervid flame. 
Beneath a patroness's air 

Of noble name. 
While countless hills I could survey. 
And countless flocks as well as they ; 
But other scenes did charms display 

That better please. 
Where polished manners dwelt with Gray 

In rural ease. 
Where Cessnock flows with gurgling sound. 
And Irwine marking out the bound. 
Enamoured of the scenes around. 

Slow runs his race, 
A name I doubly honoured found 

With knightly grace. 



Brvdone's bruvcwnrd Is; 
Fanie humbly Mll.i in- h. 
And near hi>kiii.iiK,i,-.n 

With i.iM> iMiiiril 
LamentinL'tl.. ii- inr h:." 

iMu-i . .•HI.' .. 


«• liim stand, 
iic'Ld 
d lan(J 


Theowncii 1 , ; 
Ncirsanih v ...l 11.:. 
Aheartto.i «:iiin n jin!-. 

At times ucrrnn. 
But, large in every feature 

Appeared the man 


.1 note: 
till, hot, 

wrote. 



Page 41, /. 19. This poem was first printed 
in the second edition of Burns' works. 

Page 42, 1. 17. When this worthy old sports- 
man went out last muir-fowl season, he supposed 
it was to be, in Ossian's phrase, " the last of his 
fields," and expressed an ardent desire to die and 
be buried in the muirs. On this hint the author 
composed his Elegy and Epitaph. R. B. 

1 Captain James Montgomery, Master of St. James's 
Lodge, Tarbolton, to which the author has the honour 
to belong. K. B. 




NOTES. 



587 



Page 42, /. 33. A certain preacher, a great 
favourite with the million. Vide the " Ordina- 
tion," stanza ii. R. B. 

Page 42, /. 34. Another preacher, an equal 
favourite with the few, who was at that time 
ailing. For him see also the " Ordination," 
stanza ix. R. B. 

Page 43, /. 25. This stanza does not appear 
in the Edinburgh edition. 

Page 43, /. 22, col. 2. Killie is a phrase the 
country folk sometimes use for the name of a 
certain town in the west CKilmarnock). R. B. 

Page 48. The scene of rhe " Jolly Beggars " 
was the Change house of Poosie Nansie's in 
Mauchline, a favourite haunt of all kinds of 
vagrants. It is said that Burns witnessed the 
circumstances which gave rise to the poem in 
company with his friend James Smith. .Although 
the most dramatic of all Burns' performances, it 
was not a favourite with his mother and brother, 
and he never seems to have thought it worthy 
of publication. Mr. George Thomson had heard 
of its existence, and in 1793 wrote the Poet on 
the subject. Burns replied, " I have forgot the 
cantata you allude to, as I kept no copy, and, 
indeed, did not know of its existence; however, 
I remember that none of the songs pleased my- 
self except the last, something about 
" Courts for cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest." 
It was first published in Glasgow in 1801. 

Page 48, /. 34. The heights of Abraham, 
where Wolfe gloriously fell. 

Page 48, /. 36. " El Morro, the castle which 
defends the entrance to the harbour of Santiago, 
or St. Jago, a small island near the southern 
shore of Cuba. It is situated on an eminence, 
the abutments being cut out of the limestone 
rock. Logan s Notes of a Tour, St'c, Edin- 
burgh, 1838. In 1762 this castle was stormed 
and taken by the British, after which the Havana 
was surrendered, with spoil to the value of three 
millions." Chambers. 

Page 48, /. 41. Captain Curtis, who destroyed 
the Spanish floating batteries during the siege 
of Gibraltar. 

Page 48, /. 43. The defender of Gibraltar, 
George Augustus Elliot, created Lord Heath- 
field for his services. 

Page 54. Gilbert Burns states that the " Verses 
to the Mouse " were composed while the author 
was holding the plough. Mr. Chambers relates 
a pleasant circumstance in relation to the event, 
and the poem to which it gave rise. "John 
Blane, who had acted as gaudsman to Burns, 
and who lived sixty years afterwards, had a dis- 
tinct recollection of the turning up of the mouse. 
Like a thoughtless youth as he was, he ran after 
the creature to kill it, but was checked and re- 
called by his master, who he observed became 
thereafter thoughtful and abstracted. Burns, 
who treated his servants with the familiarity of 



fellow-labourers, soon after read the poem to 
Blane." The gaudsman's rush after the terri- 
fied creature may have suggested the lines : — 
" 1 wad be laitli to rin an' chase thee, 
Wi' nmrd'ring pattle." 

Page 55. " A Winter Night " was first printed 
in the second edition of the poems. 

Page 57. Davie was David Sillar, a member 
of the Tarbolton Club, and author of a volume 
of poems printed at Kilmarnock in 1789. Gil- 
bert Burns states that the " Epistle " was among 
the earliest of his brother's poems. " It was," 
he adds, " I think, in summer, 1784, when, in the 
interval of harder labour, he and I were weeding 
in the garden (kailyard) that he repeated to me 
the principal part of the epistle. I believe the 
first idea of Robert's becoming an author was 
started on this occasion. I was much pleased 
with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion 
it would bear being printed, and that it would 
be well received by people of taste; that I 
thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many 
of Allan Ramsay's epistles; and that the merit 
of these, and much other Scottish poetry, seemed 
to consist in the knack of the expression ; but 
here there was a stream of interesting sentiment, 
and the Scotticism of the language scarcely 
seemed affected, but appeared to be the natural 
language of the poet; that, besides, there was 
certainly some novelty in a poet pointing out 
the consolations that were in store for him when 
he should go a-begging. Robert seemed very 
well pleased with my criticism, and we talked 
of sending it to some magazine; but as the plan 
afforded no opportunity of how it would take, 
the idea was dropped." 

P'^Se 57, ^- 37. Ramsay. R. B. 

Page 59. With reference to the poem Gil- 
bert Burns writes, "It is scarcely necessary to 
mention that the " Lament" was composed on 
that unfortunate passage of his matrimonial his- 
tory which I have mentioned in my letter to 
Mrs. Dunlop, after the first distraction of his 
feelings had a little subsided." 

Page 61, /. 9. Dr. Young. R. B. 

Page 61. Gilbert Burns, in writing of the 
" Cotter's Saturday Night," says, " Robert had 
frequently remarked to me, that he thought 
there was something peculiarly venerable in the 
phrase, ' Let us worship God,' used by a decent 
sobei head of a family introducing family wor- 
ship. To this sentiment of the author the world 
is indebted for the ' Cotter's Saturday Night.' 
The hint of the plan and title of the poem were 
taken from Fergusson's ' Farmer's Ingle.' When 
Robert had not some pleasure in view in which 
I was not thought fit to participate, we used 
frequently to walk together, when the weather 
was favourable, on the Sunday afternoons 
(those precious breathing times to the labour- 
ing part of the community) , and enjoyed such 
Sundays as would make one regret to see their 
number abridged. It was in one of these walks 
that I first had the pleasure of heaving the 




NO TES. 



^ 
W 



Saturday Night.' 
nything 



author repeat the ' Cotter": 

1 do not recollect to have read or heard anj 

by which I was more highly electrified. The fifth 

and sixth stanzas, and the eighteenth, thrilled 

with a peculiar ecstasy through my soul." 

Page (i7.,l.%. Var. Does a' his weary kiaugh 
and care beguile. First Edinb. edition. 

Page 6s, I- 7- Pope's "Windsor Forest." R. B- 

Page 65, /. 23. Var. 

That stream'd thro' great unhappy Wallace' heart. 
First and second editioti. 

Page 65. Gilbert Burns writes, " Several of 
the poems were produced for the purpose of 
bringing forward some favourite sentiment of 
the author. He used to remark to me that he 
could not well conceive a more mortifying pic- 
ture of human life than a man seeking work. In 
casting about in his mind how this sentiment 
might be brought foward, the elegy " Man was 
made to Mourn " was composed. 

Page 66, /. 33. In Bums' memoranda the 
following passage is prefixed to the prayer: '"A 
prayer, when fainting fits, and other alarming 
symptoms of pleurisy, or some other dangerous 
disorder, which indeed still threatens me, first 
put nature on the alarm." 

Page^Tfl. n. Var. Again by passion would 
be led astray. 

Page 67, /. 20. Var. 
If one so black with crimes dare call on Thee. 

Page 67, /. 24. Var. 

Those rapid headlong passions to confine. 

Page 67, /. 25. Var. 

For all unfit my native powers be. 

Page 67, /. 28. " The first time," says Gilbert 
Bums, " Robert heard the spinnet played iipon 
was at the house of Dr. Laurie, then minister 
of the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow, 
having given up the parish in favour of his son. 
Dr. Laurie has several daughters: one of them 
played; the father and mother led down the 
dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the 
Poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. It was 
a delightful family scene for our Poet, then 
lately introduced to the world. His mind was 
roused to a poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas 
were left in the room where he slept." Mr. 
Chambers states that the morning after the 
dance Burns did not make his appearance at 
the breakfast table at the usual hour. Dr. 
Laurie's son went to inquire for him, and met 
him on the stair. The young man asked Burns 
if he had slept well. " Not well," was the reply : 
" the fact is, I have been praying half the night. 
If you go up to my room, you will find my 
prayer on the table." 

Page 68, /. 21. In Burns' memoranda the 
poem appears with the following sentences 
prefixed: " There was a certain period of my 
life that my spirit was broke by repeated losses 



and disasters, which threatened, and indeed 
effected, the utter ruin of my fortune. My 
body, too, was attacked by that most dreadful 
disorder, a hypochondria or confirmed melan- 
choly. In this wretched state, the recollection 
of which makes me yet shudder, I hung my 
harp on the willow-trees, except in some lucid 
intervals, in one of which I composed the fol- 
lowing." 

Page 70, /. 13. This poem was addressed to 
Andrew Aitken, son of the poet's patron, Robert 
Aitken, to whom the " Cotter's Saturday Night " 
was dedicated. Mr. Chambers states that 
Mr. Niven c<" Kilbride always alleged that the 
" Epistle " was originally addressed to him. 

Page 70, /. 22, col. 2. After this line, in a 
copy of the poem in Bums' handwriting, the 
following stanza occurs : — 

If ve hae made a step aside, 

Some hap mistake o'erta'en you. 
Yet still keep up a decent pride. 

And ne'er o'er far demean you. 
Time comes wi' kind oblivious shade, 

And daily darker sets it; 
And if nae'niair mistakes arc made, 
Tlic world soon forgets it. 

Page ji. Bums when meditating emigra- 
tion to the West Indies was in gloomy mood 
enough, and in this ode, although in it he mocks 
at fortune, there are not wanting touches of 
bitterness, which are all the more effective from 
the prevalent lightness and gaiety by which 
they are surrounded. 
Page 71, /. 29. Var. 

Our biUie, Rob, has ta'en a jink. 
Page 71, /. 35. Var. 

He's canter't to anithcr shore. 
Page 71, /. 38. Var. 

An' pray kind Fortune to redress him. 
Page 71, /. 39. Var. 

Twill gar her poor, auld heart, 1 tear. 

Page 71. / 20, col. 2. Var. 

An' scarce a bellyfu' o' drumraock. 
Page 71, /. 37, col. 2. Var. 

Then fare you neel, iny rhymin hillie! 

Page 71, /. 7. This poem did not appear in 
the first edition. 

Page T2. In the " Caledonian Mercury," of 
date 20th December, 1786, in which the " Hag- 
gis " was printed, apparently for the first time, 
the concluding stanza appears as follows: — 
Ye Pow'rs wha gie us a' that's gude, 
Still bless auld e aledonia's brood 
Wi' great John Barleycorn's heart's bludc. 



A glorious Haggicc. 

Page 72. The dedication to Gavin Hamilton, 
the poet's friend and patron, did not, as rnight 
have been expected, open the volume published 
at Kilmamock. It, however, finds its place in 
the body of the work. 





NOTES. 




Page 74, /. 30. The " lady " referred to in this 
line was, Mr. Chambers informs lis, a village 
belle. He adds that her name was well known 
in Mauchline. 



Page 75 
burgh m i 



This Address was written in Edii 



Page 
of I 



ter of Lord Monboddo. Burns' admiration for 
herv 



Pi^ge 75. " The Epistle to John Lapraik was 
produced," says Gilbert Burns, " exactly on the 
occasion described by the author. It was at 
one of these rockzngs at our house, when we 
had twelve or fifteen young people with their 
rocks, that Lapraik's song, beginning, ' When I 
upon thy bosom lean,' was sung, and we were 
informed who was the author. Upon this Robert 
wrote his first epistle to Lapraik; and his second 
was in reply to his answer." 

Page 78. William Simpson was the school- 
of Ochiltree parish. 



Page 80. The postscript to the foregoing 
"Epistle" may be considered as a pendant to 
" The twa herds," which was making a noise in 
Ayrshire at the time. 

Page 81. John Rankine lived at Adam-hill, 
in Ayrshire ; he was a man of much humour, 
and was one of Burns' earliest friends. 

Page 81, /. 4. A certain humorous drearn of 
his was then making noise in the countrj'-side. 
R. B. Of this dream the substance is thus 

related by Allan Cunningham. " Lord K 

was in the habit of calling his familiar acquaint- 
ances 'brutes' or 'damned brutes.' One day 
meeting Rankine, his lordship said, ' Brute, 
are ye dumb? have ye no queer story to tell us? ' 
' I have nae stor^-,' said Rankine, ' but last 
night I had an odd dream.' ' Out with it, 
by all means,' said the other. ' A weel, 
ye see,' said Rankine, ' I dreamed that I 
was dead, and that for keeping other than good 
company on earth, I was damned. When I 
knocked at hell-door, wha should open it but 
the deil ; he was in a rough humour, and said, 
" Wha may you be, and what's your name?" 
"My name," quoth L, "is John Rankine, andmy 
dwelling-place was Adam-hill." " Gi wa' wi'," 
quoth Satan, "ye canna be here'; yer ane of 

Lord K 's damned brutes: Hell's fouo' them 

already ; " ' " This sharp rebuke, it is said, 
polished for the future his lordship's speech. 
The trick alluded to in the same line was Ran- 
kine's making tipsy one of the " unco gxide." 

Page 81, /. 29. A song he had promised the 
author. 

Page 82. Friar's Carse was the estate of 
Captain Riddel, of Glenriddel, beautifully situ- 
ated on the banks of the Nit^, near Ellisland. 
The Hermitage was a decorated cottage, which 
the proprietor had erected. 



Page 82, /. 6 In a copy printed in the Gen- 
tleman's Magazine the following couplet occurs 
here : — 

Day— how rapid in its flight: 
Day — how few must sec tlie night ! 

Page 82, /. 10. Var 

Beneath thy mornmg's sun advance. Gent's, ilaf. 

Page 82, /. 25. Var. 

When thy shades of ev'ning close. Gem's. Uaf. 

Page 82., i. 33. k'ar. 

genuine estimate 
Sav the criterion of their fate 
The important query- of their staJe, 
Is not, &e. Gent's. Mag. 



Page 82, /. 36. Var. 



ebb or flow? 



Tell them, &c. Gent's. Mag. 
Page 82, /. 22, col. 2. Var. 

Fame, a restless airy dream. Gent's. Mag 
Page 82, /. 23, col. 2. Var. 

Pleasures, insects on the wing ; 

Round peace, the tenderest flower of spring. 
Gent's. Mag. 
Page 82, /. 26, col. 2. Var. 

Make the butterflies their own Genu's. Mag. 
Page82,l. 2^,col. 2. Var. 

But thy utmost dutj' done. Gent s. Mag. 
Page 82, /. 42, col. 2. Var. 

Quod the Bedesman on Nitheside. Gent's. Mag. 

Page 83. The subject of this ode was the 
widow of Richard Oswald, Esq . , of Auchincruive. 
She died December 6, 1788. Burns himself 
states the cause of its composition. "In 
January last, on my road to Ayrshire, I had to 
put up at Bailie Whigham's, in Sanquhar, the 
only tolerable inn in the place. The frost ^yas 
keen, and the grim evening and howling wind 
were ushering in a night of snow and drift. 
My horse and I were both much fatigued by 
the labours of the day; and just as my friend 
the Bailie and I were bidding defiance to the 
storm, over a smoking bowl, in wheels the 
funereal pageantry of the late Mrs. Oswald, and 
poor I am forced to brave all the terrors of the 
tempestuous night, and jade my horse — my 
young favourite horse, whom I had just christ- 
ened Pegasus — farther on through the wildest 
hills and moors of Ayrshire to the ne.\t inn. 
The powers, of poetry and prose sink under me 
when I would describe what I felt. Suffice it 
to say, that when a good fire at New Cumnock 
had so far recovered my frozen sinews, I sat 
down and wrote the enclosed ode." Being dead, 
the poor lady could hardly be held responsible 
for disturbing the Poet's potations with his 
friend the Bailie ! 



HIT, 1 791, Bums wrote 
" The Elegy on Cap- 



Page 83. In Februaij 
respecting this poem: 

tain Henderson is a tribute to the memorj 
of a man I loved much. ... As almost all my 
religious tenets originate from my heart, I an? 



-ti 



^ 



590 



wonderfully plessed with the idea that I can 
still keep up a tender intercourse with the 
dearly beloved friend, or still more den.rly 
beloved mistress, who is gone to the world of 
spirits." 

Page 84. Readers curious in the transmis- 
sion of poetic ideas may amuse themselves 
by comparing this epitaph with Wordsworth's 
Poet's Epitaph. 

Page 85. Writing to Mrs. Graham, of Fintry, 
Burns says, "Whether it is that the story 
of our Mary, Queen of Scots, has a peculiar 
effect on the feelings of a poet, or whether 
I have in the enclosed ballad succeeded beyond 
my usual poetic success, I know not; but it has 
please^ me beyond any effort of my muse for a 
good while past: on that account I enclose it 
particularly to you." 

Page 85. Robert Graham, Esq., of Fintry, 
was one of the Commissioners of Excise. 
Burns met him at the house of the Duke 
of Athole. The " Epistle " was the poet's 
earliest attempt in the manner of Pope. It has 
its merits, of course; but it lacks the fire, ease, 
and sweetness of his earlier Epistles to Lapraik, 
Smith, and others. 

Page 88, 1. 10. " By a fall, not from my horse, 
but with my horse, I have been a cripple some 
time." Burns to Mrs. Dunlop, 7th February, 
1791. 

Page 88, /. 11. Var. 
The peopled fold thy kindly care have found; 
The horned bull tremendous spurns the ground; 
The lowly lion has enough and more, - 
The forest trembles at his very roar. 

Page 88, /. 14. Var. 
The puny wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 

Page%%,l. 21. Var. 
Even silly women have defensive arts — 
Their eyes, their tongues, and natneless other parts. 

Page 88, /. 29. Var. 

No claws to dig, his dreaded sight to shun. 
Page 88, /. 31. Var. 

No nerves olfactory, true to Mammon's fool; 

Or grunting grub, sagacious, evil's root; 

Or grunting sage, to grub all-evil's root. 

Page 88, /. 39. Alexander Munro, Professor 
of Anatomy in the University of Edinburgh. 
Page 88, /. 46. Var. 

The hapless Poet flounces on through life. 

Page 89, /. 31. James, Earl of Glencairn. 
See succeeding poem. 

Page 89. This nobleman, for whom the Poet 
had a deep respect, died at Falmouth, in 
his forty-second year. Burns wore mourning 
for the Earl, and designed to attend his funeral 
in Ayrshire. He enclosed the poem to Lady 
Elizabeth Cunningham, sister of the deceased 
nobleman. 



Page 91. "When my father," writes Gil- 
bert Burns, "feued his little property near 
Alloway Kirk, the wall of the churchyard had 
gone \.j ruin, and cattle had free liberty of 
pasture in it. My father, with two or three 
other neighbors, joined in an application to 
the town council of Ayr, who were superiors of 
the adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and 
raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this 
ancient cemetery with a wall ; hence he came 
to consider it as his burial-place, and we learned 
that reverence for it people generally have for 
the burial-place of their ancestors. My brother 
was living at EUisland, when Captain Grose, 
on his peregrinations through Scotland, stayed 
some time at Carse House, in the neighbour- 
hood, with Captain Robert Riddel, of Glen- 
riddel, a particular friend of my brother's. 
The Antiquarian and the Poet were ' unco pack 
and thick thegither.' Robert requested of Cap- 
tain Grose, when he should come to Ayrshire, 
that he would make a drawing of Alloway Kirk, 
as it was the burial-place of his father, and 
where he himself had a sort of claim to lay 
down his bones when they should be no longer 
serviceable to him; and added, by way of en- 
couragement, that it was the scene of many a 
good story of witches and apparitions, of which 
he knew the Captain was very fond. The Cap- 
tain agreed to the request, provided the Poet 
would furnish a witch story, to be printed 
along with it. ' Tam o' Shanter ' was pro- 
duced on this occasion, and was first published 
in ' Grose's Antiquities of Scotland.' " The fol- 
lowing letter, sent by Burns to Captain Grose, 
deals with the witch stories that clustered round 
.■\lloway Kirk. 

" Among the many witch stories I have heard 
relating to Alloway Kirk, I distinctly remember 
only two or three. 

" Upon a stormy night, amid whistling squalls 
of wind and bitter blasts of hail — in short, on 
such a night as the devil would choose to take 
the air in — a farmer, or a farmer's servant, was 
plodding and plashing homeward with his 
plough-irons on his shoulder, having been get- 
ting some repairs on them at a neighbouring 
smithy. His way lay by the Kirk of Alloway, 
and being rather on the anxious look-out in 
approaching the place so well known to be a 
favourite haunt of the devil, and the devil's 
friends and emissaries, he was struck aghast by 
discovering, . through the horrors of the storm 
and stormy night, a light, which, on his nearer 
approach, plainly showed itself to proceed from 
the haunted edifice. Whether he had been for- 
tified from above on his devout supplication, 
as is customary with people when they suspect 
the immediate presence of Satan, or whether, 
according to another custom, he had got 
courageously drunk at the smithy, I will not 
pretend to determine; but so it was, that he 
ventured to go up to — nay, into — the very 
Kirk. As luck would have it, his temerity came 
off unpunished. 

"The members of the infernal junto were aK 
out on some midnight business or other, and he 



s 



NOTES. 




saw nothing but a kind of kettle or caldron, 
depending from the roof, over the fire, simmering 
some heads of unchristened children, limbs of 
executed malefactors, &c., for the business of the 
night. It was in for a penny, in for a pound, 
with the honest ploughman; so, without cere- 
mony, he unhooked the caldron from off the 
fire, and pouring out its damnable ingredients, 
inverted it on his head, and carried it fairly 
home, where it remained long in the family, a 
living evidence of the truth of the story. 

" Another story which I can prove to be 
equally authentic, was as follows: — 

"On a market-day, in the town of Ayr, a farmer 
from Carrick, and consequently whose way lay 
by the very gate of Alloway Kirk-yard, in order 
to cross the river Doon at the old bridge, which 
is about two or three hundred yards farther on 
than the said gate, had been detained by his busi- 
ness, till by the time he reached Alloway it was 
the wizard hour, between night and morning. 

" Though he was terrified with ablaze stream- 
ing from the Kirk, yet as it is a well-known fact, 
that to turn back on these occasions is running 
by far the greatest risk of mischief, he prudently 
advanced on his road. When he had reached 
the gate of the Kirk-yard, he was surprised and 
entertained, through the ribs and arches of an 
old Gothic window, which still faces the high- 
way, to see a dance of witches merrily footing 
it round their old sooty blackguard master, who 
was keeping them all alive with the power of his 
bagpipe. The farmer, stopping his horse to ob- 
serve them a little, could plainly descry the faces 
of many of his acquaintance and neighborhood. 
How the gentleman was dressed, tradition does 
not say, but that the ladies were all in their 
smocks; and one of them happening unluckily 
to have a smock which was considerably too 
short to answer all the purposes of that piece of 
dress, our farmer was so tickled that he involun- 
tarily burst out, with a loud laugh, 'Weel looppen 
Maggy wi' the short sark ! ' and recollecting 
himself, instantly spurred his horse to the top of 
his speed. I need not mention the universally 
known fact, that no diabolical power can pursue 
you beyond the middle of a running stream. 
Lucky it was for the poor farmer that the river 
Doon was so near, for notwithstanding the speed 
of his horse, which was a good one, against he 
rooched the middle of the arch of the bridge, 
and consequently the middle of the stream, the 
pursuing, vengeful hags were so close at his heels, 
that one of them actually sprang to seize him: 
but it was too late; nothing was on her side of 
the stream but the horse's tail, which immedi- 
ately gave way at her infernal grip, as if blasted 
by a stroke of lightning; but the farmer was be- 
yond her reach. However, the unsightly, tail- 
less condition of the vigorous steed was, to the 
last hours of the noble creature's life, an awful 
warning to the Carrick farmers not to stay too 
late in Ayr markets." 

This letter is interesting, as showing the actual 
body of tradition on which Burns had to work — 
the soil out of which the consummate poem g-rew 
like a flower. And it is worthy of notice also 



how, out of the letter, some of the best things in 
the poem have come: "such a night as the 
devil would choose to take the air in" being, 
for instance, the suggestion of the couplet — 
That night a cliild might understand 
The Deil had bu.siness on his hand. 
It is pleasant to know that Burns thought well 
of" Tarn o' Shanter." 

To Mrs. Dunlop he wrote on the nth April, 
1791 : — " On Saturday morning last Mrs. Burns 
made me a present of a fine boy, rather stouter, 
but not so handsome as your godson was at his 
time of life. Indeed, I look on your little name- 
sake to be my chef-d''cenvre in that species of 
manufacture, as 1 look on ' Tam o' Shanter ' 
to be my standard performance in the poetical 
line. 'Tis true, both the one and the other dis- 
cover a spice of roguish waggery, that might, 
perhaps, be as well spared; but then ihey also 
show, in my opinion, a force of genius, and a 
finishing polish, that I despair of ever excelling." 

Page 93, /. 46. The following lines orisinally 

occurred here: — 

Three lawyers' tongues turned inside out, 
■\Vi' lies seamed, like a beggar's clout; 
Three priests' hearts rotten, black as muck. 
Lay stniking, vile, in every neuk. 

They were omitted at the suggestion of Lord 

Woodhouselee. 

Page g$, I. 8. It is a well-known fact, that 
witches, or any evil spirits, have no power to 
follow a poor wight any further than the middle 
of the next running stream. It may be proper 
likewise to mention to the benighted traveller 
then when he falls in with bogles, whatever 
danger may be in his going forward, there is 
much more hazard in turning back. R. B. 

Page 95, /. 26. " Tam o' Shanter," as already 
stated, appeared first in Captain Grose's " An- 
tiquities of Scotland." To the poem the editor 
appended the following note: " To my ingenious 
friend, Mr. Robert Burns, I have been seriously 
obligated; for he was not only at the pains of 
making out what was most worthy of notice in 
Ayrshire, the county honoured by his birth, but 
he also wrote expressly for this work the pretty 
tale annexed to Alloway Church." Grose's 
book appeared at the close of April, 1791, and he 
died in Dublin shortly after. 

Page 95. For information respecting Captain 
Grose's mtimacy with Burns see preceding note. 



Page gs, I. ■21. Vide ! 
land." R. B. 



lis " Antiquities of Scot 



Page 96, /. 8. Vide his " Treatise on Ancient 
Armour and Weapons." R. B. 

Page 96, /. 27. \'ar. 

Seek, mangled innocent, some wonted form! 

That wonted fijrm, alas ! thy dying bed ; 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head. 
The cold earth with thy blood-stain'd bosom warm 
Perhaps a mother's anguisli adds its woe; 

The playful pair crowd fondly by thy side : 
Ah! helpless nurslings, who wdl now provide 

That life a mother only can bestow? 



%r. 



S 



59^ 



^ 



Page 96, /. 34. ]'ar. 
Anil curse the ruthless wretch, and mourn tliy hapless 
fate. 

'J'he changes in this poem were made on the 
suggestion of Dr. Gregory, to whom the Poet 
had sent a copy. 

Page 97. This poem was addressed to the 
daughter of Mr. William Cruikshank, one of 
the masters of the High School of Edinburgh. 

Page 98. Bruar Falls, in Athol, are exceed- 
ingly picturesque and beautiful, but their effect 
is much impaired by the want of trees and 
shrubs. R. B. 



Page 98, /. 19, col. ■ 
The bairdic, mus 



Far. 
youngest child. 



Page ^9, /. II, coi. 2. Mr. Walker in his let- 
ter to IJr. Currie, describing the impression 
Burns made at Blair, says, "The Duke's fine 
family attracted much of his admiration; he 
drank their health as honest men and bonie 
lasses, an idea which was much applauded by 
the company, and with which he has very felici- 
tously closed his poem." 

Page 99. The occasion of the satire was 
as follows. In 1786 Dr. Wm. McGill, one of 
the ministers of Ayr, published an essay on 
" The Death of Jesus Christ," which was de- 
nounced as heterodo.x by Dr. Wm. Peebles, of 
Newton-upon-Ayr, in a sermon preached by 
him November 5th, 1788. Dr. McGill pub- 
lished a defence, and the case came before the 
Ayr presbytery, and finally before the synod of 
Glasgow and Ayr. In August, 1789, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Logan: "I have, as you will 
shortly see, finished the ' Kirk's Alarm; ' but 
now that it is done, and that I have laughed 
once or twice at the conceits of some of the 
stanzas, I am determined not to let it get into 
the public: so I send you this copy, the first I 
have sent to Ayrshire, except some few of the 
stanzas, which I wrote off in embryo for Gavin 
Hamilton, under the express provision and 
request that you will only read it to a few of 
us, and do not on any account give, or permit to 
be taken, any copy of the ballad." With refer- 
ence to the ballad he wrote to Mr. Graham of 
Fintry: " I laughed myself at some conceits in 
it, though I am convinced in my conscience 
that there are a good many heavy stanzas in it 
too." 

Page 99, /. 13. J^ar. 

Brother Scots, brother Scots, wha believe in John 
Knox. 

Page 99, /. 17. Dr. McGill. 
Page 99, /. 18. I'ar. 

To strike wicked writers wi' terror. 



Page 99, /. 23. 
ost of Ayr. 



John Ballantyne, Esq., Pro- 



Page 99, /. 29. Rev. John Russel : see " Holy 
Fair." 



Page 99, /. 24. Mr. Robert Aitken. 

Page 99, /. 25. Rev. Dr. Wm. Dalrymple. 



Page 99, /. 
' Ordii 



Rev. James Mackinlay: see 

Page 100,1. 1. Rev. Alexander Moodie : see 
" The Twa Herds." 

Page 100, /. 5. Rev. Mr. Auld. 
Page 100, I. 6. Mr. Gavin Hamilton. 
Page 100, /. 9. Mr. Grant, Ochiltree. 
Page 100, /. 13. Mr. Young, Cumnock. 

Page 100, /. 17. Rev. Dr. William Peebles. 
He had written a poem which contained a ridic- 
ulous line: — 

And bound in Liberty's endearing chain. 

Page loo, I. 21. Dr. Andrew Mitchell, 
Monkton. 

Page 100, /. 25. Rev. Stephen Young, Barr. 

Page 100, /. 29. Rev. George Smith, Galston : 
see " Holy Fair." 

Page 100, /. 33. Rev. John Shepherd, Muir- 
kirk. 

Page 100, /. 37. Mr. William Fisher, the 
" Holy Willie " of the famous satire. 
Page 102, /. 2. I'ar. 

The eye with pleasure and amazement Alls. 
Page 102. Miss Susan Dunlop, daughter of 
Mr. Dunlop, married a French gendeman named 
The young couple were living at L( 



H. 

don Castle when M. Henri died, leaving his 
wife pregnant. The verses were written on the 
birth of a son and heir. Mrs. Dunlop commu- 
nicated the intelligence to Burns, and received 
the following letter in return : " 'As cold waters 
to a thirsty soul, so is good news from a far 
country ! ' Fate has long owed me a letter of 
good news from you, in return for the many 
tidings of sorrow which I have received. In 
this instance I most cordially obey the Apostle 
— ' Rejoice with them that do rejoice.' For me 
to sing for joy is no new thing ; but to preach 
for joy, as I have done in the commencement 
of this epistle, is a pitch of extravagant rapture 
to which I never rose before. I read your letter 

— I literally jumped for joy: how could such 
a mercurial creature as a poet lumpishly keep 
his seat on the receipt of the best news from his 
best friend? I seized my gilt-headed Wangee 
rod, an instrument indispensably necessary, in 
my left hand, in the moment of inspiration and 
rapture; and stride, stride — quick and quicker 

— out skipped I among the blooming banks of 
Nith, to muse over my joy by retail. To keep 
within the bounds of prnsc was impossible." Mr. 
Chambers traces the future history of Mrs. 
Henri and her son: "In a subsequent letter 
Burns deplores her (Mrs. Henri's) dangerous 
and distressing situation in France, exposed to 
the tumults of the Revolution; and he has soon 
after occasion to condole with his venerable 
friend on the death of her daughter in a foreign 




NOTES. 



593 



land. When this sad event took place, the 
orphan child fell under the immediate care of 
his paternal grandfather, who, however, was 
soon obliged to take refuge in Switzerland, 
leaving the infant behind him. Years passed, 
he and the Scotch friends of the child heard 
nothing of it, and concluded that it was lost. 
At length, when the elder Henri was enabled to 
return to his ancestral domains, he had the un- 
speakable satisfaction of finding that his grand- 
son and heir was alive and well, having never 
been removed from the place. The child had 
been protected and reared with the greatest 
care by a worthy female named Mademoiselle 
Susette, formerly a domestic in the family. 
This excellent person had even contrived, 
through all the levelling violence of the inter- 
vening period, to preserve in her yoimg charge 
the feehng appropriate to his rank. Though 
absolutely indebted to her industry for his bread, 
she had caused him always to be seated by him- 
self at table and regularly waited on, so that the 
otherwise plebeian circumstances in which he 
lived did not gready affect him. The subject 
of Burns' stanzas was, a very few years ago, 
proprietor of the family estates; and it is agree- 
able to add that Mademoiselle Susette then 
lived in his paternal mansion, in the enjoyment 
of that grateful respect to \vhich her fidelity and 
discretion so eminently entitled her. 

Page 103. This epistle was prefi.xed to the 
edition of Sillar's poems, published in Kilmar- 
nock in 1789. 

Page 104. The " Inventory" was addressed 
to Mr. Aitken of Ayr, surveyor of ta.\es for the 
district. It was first printed in the Liverpool 
edition of the poems. 

Page 105. " As the authentic prose history of 
the Whistle is curious," writes Burns, " I shall 
here give it: — In the train of Anne of Den- 
mark, when she came to Scotland with our 
James the Sixth, there came over also a Danish 
gentleman of gigantic stature and great prowess, 
and a matchless champion of Bacchus. He 
had a little ebony whistle, which at the com- 
mencement of the orgies he laid on the table: 
and whoever was last able to blow it, everybody 
else being disabled by the potency of the bottle, 
was to carry off the whistle as a trophy of 
victory. The Dane produced credentials of his 
victories, without a single defeat, at the courts 
of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, Warsaw, 
and several of the petty courts in* Germany; 
and challenged the Scots' Bacchanalians to the 
alternative of trying his prowess, or else 
acknowledging their inferiority. After many 
overthrows on the part of the Scots, the Dane 
was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie of 
Maxwelton, ancestor of the present worthy 
baronet of that name, who after three days' 
and three nights' hard contest, left the Scandi- 
navian under the table, 

And blew on the whistle his requiem shrill. 
Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before mentioned, 
afterwards lost the whistle to Walter Riddel of 
Glenriddel, who had married a sister of Sir 



Walter's. On Friday, the i6th October, 1690, 
at Friar's Carse, the whistle w.as once more 
contended for, as related in the ballad, by the 
present Sir Robert Lawrie of Maxwelton ; 
Robert Riddel, Esq., of Glenriddel, lineal de- 
scendant and representative of Walter Riddel, 
who won th; whistle, and in whose family it 
had continued : and Alexander Fergdson, Esq. 
of Craigdarroch, likewise descended of the 
great Sir Robert; which last gendeman carried 
off the hard-won honours of the field. R. B." 

Oddly enough, on the i6th October, 1789, we 
have a letter from Burns addressed to Captain 
Riddel, referring to the Bacchanalian contest. 
" Big with the idea of this important day at 
Friai's Carse, I have watched the elements and 
skies in the full persuasion that they would 
announce it to the astonished world by some 
phenomena of terrific portent. Yesternight, 
till a very late hour did I wait with anxious 
horror for the appearance of some comet firing 
half the sky, or aerial armies of sanguinary 
Scandinavians darting athwart the startled 
heaven, rapid as the ragged lightning, and horrid 
as the convulsions of nature that bury nations. 

" The elements, however, seem to take the 
matter very quietly : they did not even usher 
in the morning with triple suns and a shower of 
blood, symbolical of the three potent heroes 
and the mighty claret-shed of the day. For 
me, as Thomson in his VVmter says of the 
storm, I shall ' Hear astonished, and astonished 
sing ' 

The whistle and the man : I sing 
The man tliat won the whistle." 

And he concludes by wishing that the cap- 
tain's head " may be crowned by laurels to- 
night, and free from aches to-morrow." Bums 
in his note is supposed to have made a mistake 
of a year. He says the whistle was contended 
for on Friday, the i6th October, 1790: but in 

1789 the i6th October fell on a Friday, and in 

1790 it fell on a Saturday. 

It is not quite clear what share the poet took 
in the fray. Allan Cunningham states that the 
whistle was contended for " in the dining-room 
of Friar's Carse in Burns' presence, who drank 
bottle after bottle with the competitors, and 
seemed disposed to take up the conqueror." 
On the other hand, Mr. Hunter of Cockrune, 
in the parish of Closeburn, repor:s that he has 
a perfect recollection of the whole affair. He 
states that " Burns was present the whole 
evening. He was invited to join the party to 
see that the gentlemen drank fair, and to com- 
memorate the day by writing a song. I recol- 
lect well that, when the dinner was over, Burns 
quitted the table, and went to a table in the 
same room, that was placed in a window that 
looked south-east; and there he sat down for 
the night. I placed before him a bottle of rum, 
and another of brandy, which he did not finish, 
but left a good deal of each when he rose from 
the table after the gentlemen had gone to bed. 
. . . When the gentlemen were put to bed. 
Burns walked home without any assistance, 
not being the worse of drinh. When Burns 




S94 



NOTES. 



was sitting at the table in the window, he had 
pen, ink, and paper, which I brought him at 
his own request. He now and then wrote on 
the paper, and while the gentlemen were sober, 
he turned round often, and chatted with them, 
but drank none of the claret which they .vere 
drinking. ... I heard him read aloud 
several parts of the poem, much to the amuse- 
ment of the three gentlemen." It is just pos- 
sible that Burns is after all correct enough in 
his dates. His letter to Captain Riddel on the 
i6th October, 1789, although clear enough as 
to the impending '• claret-shed," hardly sug- 
gests that the writer expected to be present. 
The theory that the revel had been originally 
arranged for that date, and, unknown to Burns, 
suddenly postponed for a year, would explain 
the matter. 



Page 105, /. 5. See Osi 



; Caric-thura. R. B. 



Page 105, /. 9. See Johnson's " Tour to the 
Hebrides." R. B. 

" I have a poetic whim in my head, which I 
at present dedicate, or rather inscribe, to the 
Right Hon. C. J. Fox; but how long that 
fancy may hold, I cannot say. A few of the 
first lines I have just rough-sketched as follows." 

The poet's MS. of the " Sketch " is in the 
British Museum. Dr. Currie altered one pas- 
sage as follows : — 
"Witli knowledge so vast, and with judgment so 

strong, 
No man with the half of em e'er went far wrong; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright, 
No man witli the half of 'em e'er went quite right." 

Page 108. Burns had sent a letter to Dr. 
Blacklock, under charge of Robert Heron, 
detailing certain recent changes in his circum- 
stances. The letter miscarried, and Blacklock 
addressed Burns in the following epistle : — 

Edinburgh, •Jith August, 1789. 
"Dear Burns, thuu hmtlior i)l'iny heart. 
Both for tin- virtues and thv art; 
Ifartitma\'- hr,;,i;,.,l n, iIm't, 
■WhichNatmr > hoiintv laiur and free 
Withpleasu.,.,,!! thvh.ait .litfuses. 
And warms tin >.mi1 » iih all the Muses: 
Whether to lai'ij.''! wilh .asv -race 
Thy numbers iii..v,- thr sa;;.- s face, 
Orbidthesuft.ri.asMons ri-,., 
And ruthless s..iils with ;rri.f surprise, 
'TisXatnri'-s v.,i,T(iistiiHtlvfi-lt. 
Thri.'thrr.lur.ir-ai,. thus t.. melt. 
'■.M..,taiixiMU.lv I «i>htnkiiow 



Isle 



■ prey. 



By turns I'ly I k and In, nd riljoy. 

And thus my ciivlin^ I s employ; 

Happy while vet these I,,. HIS remain. 

If Burns could join the eh ful train. 

With wonted zeal, sincere and fcn'ent, 
Salute once more his huml)le servant, 

"Thos. Blacklock' 



To this graceful effusion, breathing interest 
and good wishes, Burns responded, in a light 
mood at first, but which becomes overclouded 
with bitterness towards the close. 

Page log. In writing to his brother Gilbert, 
nth January, 1790, Burns says: — 

" We have got a set of very decent players 
here just now. I have seen them an evening 
or two. David Campbell, in Ayr, wrote to me 
by the manager of the company, a Mr. Suther- 
land, who is a man of apparent worth. On 
New Year's Day evening, I gave hirp the follow- 
ing prologue, which he spouted to his audienc-. 
v.ith applause." 

Page 109. Miss Burnet, daughter of Lord 
Monboddo, celebrated in the Address to Edin- 
burgh. This elegy seems to have cost the poet 
considerable trouble. In a letter to Mr. Cun- 
ningham, January, 1791, he says: — "I have 
these several months been hammering at an 
elegy on the amiable and accomplished Miss 
Burnet. I have got, and can get, no farthei 
than the following fragment." 

Page no. This ep'stle is supposed to have 
been sent to Mr. Peter Stuart, of the Star 
newspaper. From the remonstrance which 
follows it would seem that the newspaper did 
not arrive with the punctuality which was 
desired. 

Page in. Basil William, Lord Daer, son of 
the Earl of Selkirk, died in 1794, in his thirty- 
second year. Burns met him at Professor 
Dugald Stewart's villa at Catrine. 

Page III. Miss Fontenelle was an actress 
at the Dumfries' Theatre. Iii sending her the 
address. Burns writes: "Will the foregoing 
lines be of any service to you in your ap- 
proaching benefit-night? If they will, I shall 
be prouder of my muse than ever. They are 
nearly extevipore; I know they have no great 
merit; but though they should add but little to 
the entertainment of the evening, ttiey give me 
the happiness of an opportunity to declare 
how much I have the honour to be, &c." 

Page 1X2, /. 2. Var. 
The Rights of Woman claim some small attention. 

Page 112, /. 9. Var. 
Our second Right -but idle here is caution. 

Page 112, /. 15. Var. 
Got drunk, would swagger, swear, kick up a riot. 

Page 112, /. 20. An ironical allusion to the 
saturnalia of the Caledonian Hunt. 

Page 112, I. 24. Var. 
Must fall before— 'tis dear, dear admiration. 

Page 112, /. 26. P'ar. 
And thence that lil'e of life — immortal Love. 

Page 113. Burns wrote Mr. Thomson, July, 
1794 : " I have presented a copy of your songs 
to the daughter of a much-honoured friend of 
mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. I wrote, on the 
blank side of the title-page, the ToUowing ad- 
dress to the young lady. 




NOTES. 



595 



Page 113, /. 35. Var. 

In strains divine and sacred numbers juin'd. 
Page 113, /. 43. Var. 

As modest want the secret tale reveals. 
Page \-i.->„l. i,i,. Var. 

While virtue, conscious, all the strain endears. 
Page 114. Gilbert Burns doubted whether 
the Poem on Pastoral Poetry wa.s written by 
his brother. Few readers, we fancy, can have 
any doubt on the matter. Burns is, unquestion- 
ably, the author. The whole poem is full of 
lines which are " like autographs," and the four 
closing stanzas are in the Poet's best manner. 

Page 114. With reference to these verses 
Burns, in 1795, wrote Mr. Thomson: " Written 
on the blank leaf of a copy of the last edition of 
my poems, presented to the lady whom, in so 
many fictitious reveries of passion, but with the 
most ardent sentiments of real friendship, I 
have so often sung under the name of Chloris." 
The lady was Miss Jean Lorimer, daughter of 
a farmer residing at some little distance from 
Dumfries. Chloris was the most unfortunate 
of all Burns' heroines. While very young she 
eloped with a gentleman named Whelpdale, 
and was shortly after deserted by him. She 
died in 1831, having lived the greater portion 
of her life in penury. 

Page 115. Mr. Tytler had published an 
" Inquiry, Historical and Critical, into the Evi- 
dence against Mary Queen of Scots." 

Page 115, /. 37. An artist, named Miers, 
was then practising in Edinburgh as a maker 
of silhouette portraits. Burns sat to him, and 
to Mr. Tytler he forwarded one of Miers' per- 
formances. 



Page 116. This sketch is descripti' 
family of Mr. Dunlop, of Dunlop. 



of the 



Afterwards General Dunlop, 



Page 116, /. 
of Dunlop. 

, Page ii5, /. 13. Miss Rachel Dunlop was 
making a sketch of Coila. 

Page 116, /. 14. Miss Keith Dunlop, the 
youngest daughter. 

Page 116. Burns and Smellie were members 
of a club in Edinburgh called the Crochallan 
Fencibles. 

Page 117, /. 8. Mrs. Riddel, of Woodley 
Park, was the lady satirized in these verses. 
Dr. Currie, in printing them, substituted 
"Eliza" for Maria. 

Page 118. Miss Jessie Lewars attended 
Burns in his last illness. 

Page 119. Mr. John Syme was one of the 
Poet's constant companions. He possessed great 
talent, and Dr. Currie wished him to undertake 
the editing of the Poet's life and writings. 

Page I'zo, I. 41. Mr. Mackenzie, surgeon, 
Mauchline, was believed to be the gentleman to 
whom these lines were addressed. 



Page 122. In enclosing these verses to Mr. 
Creech, Burns writes: "The enclosed I have 
just wrote, nearly extempore, in a solitary inn 
in Selkirk, after a miserable wet day's riding." 

Page 122, /. I. " Auld chuckie Reekie:" 
Edinburgh. 

Page 123. In a MS. in the possession of the 
Publisher the two last stanzas are given. 




Page 124. Ruisseau.x: 
Poet's own name. 



a play upon the 



Page 125. Mrs. Scott, of Wauchope, Rox- 
burghshire, had sent a rhymed epistle to Burns, 
displaying considerable vigor of thought and 
neatness of expression. 

Page 126, /. 57. Var. 

These tive and fifty summers past. 
Page -L2-J, I. 5. Var. 

Frae Calvin's fountain-head they drank. 
Page 127, /. 20. Var. 

Or nobly swing the Gospel club. 
Page 127, /. 29. Var. 

While enemies wi' laughin' spite. 
Page 127, /. 33. Var. 

But chiefly thee, apostle Auld. 
Page 127, /. 36. Var. 

To gar them gree 
Page 127, /. 3, col. 2. Var. 

I trust in heaven to see them yet. 
Page 127, /. II, col. 2. Var. 

Auld Wodrow lang has wrought mischief. 
Page 127, /. 12, col. 2. Var. 

We trusted death wad bring relief. 
Page 128. The Rev. Mr. M'Math was, 
when Burns addressed him, assistant and suc- 
cessor to the Rev. Peter Wodrow, minister of 
Tarbolton. He is said to have been an ex- 
cellent preacher. 

Page 130. " Holy Willie " was William Fisher, 
the leading elder in the Rev. Mr. Auld's session. 
He was afterwards found guilty of embezzliiig 
money from the church offerings, and died in 
a ditch, into which he had fallen when drunk. 

Page 132, /. I. Written while Burns was on 
a visit to Sir William Murray, of Ochtertyre. 

Page 132. Master Tootie was a dealer in 
cows, who lived in Mauchline. It was his 
practice to disguise the age of his cattle, by 
polishing away the markings on their horns. 

Page 133. The newspaper contained some 
strictures on Burns' poetry. 

Page 134. John Maxwell, Esq.,ofTerraughty 
and Munches. He died in 1814, aged 94. 

Page 135, /. I. It is very doubtful whether 
Burns is the author of this piece published by 
Cromek. 




Page 135. The " Sketch " is a portion of a 
work, " The Poet's Progress," which Burns 
meditated, but of which hardly any portion 
seems to have ever been written. The imme- 
diate object of his satire is said to have been his 
pubUsher Creech. 
gc 138, /. I, 
jondon newspaper. 

Page 138, /. 34. Var. 
Dim, cluudy, sunk beyond tlie western wave. 

Page 140. Miss Ferrier, authoress of Mar- 
riage and Destiny. 

Page 140. Burns' illegitimate daughter mar- 
ried Mr. John Bishop, overseer at Polkemmet, 
and died in 1817. She is said to liave been 
strikingly like her father. A coarser version of 
this piece is extant, entitled " A Welcome to a 
Bastart Wean." 

Page 141. In 1780 Mr. John Goldie, or 
Goudie, a tradesman in Kilmarnock, published 
a series of Essays touching the authority of the 
Scriptures. A second edition of the work ap- 
peared in 1785. Burns' epistle to him, although 
written when Ayrshire was convulsed with the 
New Light and Aitld Light controversies, 
was not published till 1801. It appeared first 
in a Glasgow edition of the poems. 

Page 141, /. 16, coL 2. Dr. Taylor of Nor- 
wich, the author of a work entitled " The 
Scripture Doctrine of Original Sin proposed to 
Free and Candid Examination," which was 
extensively read by the Ne%u Light party in 
Ayrshire at the time. 

Page 141. Mr. James Tennant of Glen- 
conner was an old friend of the Poet, and was 
consulted by him respecting the taking of the 
farm of EUisland. 

Page 142. " The Esopus of this strange 
epistle," says Mr. Allan Cunningham, " was 
Williamson the actor, and the Maria to whom 
it was addressed was Mrs. Riddel." While 
Williamson and his brother actors were per- 
forming at Whitehaven, Lord Lonsdale com- 
mitted the whole to prison. 

Page 144. A person named Glendining, 
who took away his own life, was the subject of 
this epigram. Mr. Cunningham adds the fol- 
lowing particulars : "My friend Dr. Copland 
Hutchison happened to be walking out that 
way " — to a place called the " Old Chapel near 
Dumfries," where Glendining had been interred. 
" He saw Burns with his foot on the grave, his 
hat on his knee, and paper laid on his hat, on 
which he was writing. He then took the paper, 
thrust it with his finger into the red mould of 
the grave, and went away. This was the above 
epigram, and such was the Poet's mode of pub- 
lishing it." 

Page 144, /. 10. These lines form the conclu- 
sion of a letter written by Burns to Mr. John 
Kennedy, dated August, 1786, while his inten- 
tion yet held of emigrating to Jamaica. 

Page 144. "The Farewell" was written in 
the autumn of 1786, when the idea of emigration 
was firmly fixed in the Poet's mind. 



Page 147, /. 37. These verses were inscribed 
by Burns on the back of a window-shutter of 
an inn or toll-house near the scene of the devas- 
tations. 

Page 148. Major Logan, a retired military 
officer, fond of wit, violin-playing, and convi- 
viality, who lived at Park, near Ayr. 

Page 149. Gabriel Richardson was a brewer 
in Dumfries. The epitaph was written on a 
goblet, which is still preserved in the family. 

Page 150, /. 5. Written in reply to the min- 
ister of Gladsmuir, who had attacked Burns in 
verse relative to the imprudent lines inscribed 
on a window-pane in Stirling. 

Page 150. Written from EUisland to his 
friend Mr. Hugh Parker of Kilmarnock. 

Page 150. These verses were originally 
headed, " To the Right Honourable, the Earl of 
Breadalbane, President of the Right Honoura- 
ble and Honourable thaHighland Society, which 
met on the 23d of May last, at the Shakespeare, 
Covent Garden, to concert ways and means to 
frustrate the designs of five hundred High- 
landers, who, as the Society were informed by 
Mr. Mackenzieof Applecross, were so audacious 
as to attempt an escape from their lawful lords 
and masters, whose property they were, by 
emigrating from the lands of Mr. M'Donald of 
Glengarry to the wilds of Canada in search of 
that fantastic thing — Liberty." 

Page 151, /. 25. These verses form the con- 
clusion of a letter written to Mr. John Kennedy 
from Mossgiel, of date 3d March, 1786. 

Page 152. Lord President Dundas died on 
the 13th December, 1787, and Burns composed 
the elegy at the suggestion of Mr. Charles Hay, 
advocate, afterwards elevated to the bench under 
the designation of Lord Newton. On a copy of 
the eleg>' Burns afterwards wrote: " The fore- 
going poem has some tolerable lines in it, but 
the incurable wound of my pride will not suffer 
me to correct, or even to peruse it. I sent a 
copy of it, with my best prose letter, to the son 
of the great man, by the hands of one of the 
noblest men in God's world, Alexander Wood, 
surgeon. When, behold! his solicitorship took 
no more notice of my poem or me than if I had 
been a strolling fiddler, who had made free with 
his lady's name over a silly new reel. Did the 
gentleman imagine that I looked for any dirty 
gratuity? " 

Page 153, /. 5. Written at Castle Kenmure 
at the request of Mr. Gordon, whose dog had 
recently died. 

Page 153, /. 9. These lines were preserved by 
Miss Louisa Laurie, and appear to have been 
written on the same evening with the well- 
known " Verses left in the room where he 
sjept." 

Page 155, /. 9. " The Grace" was repeated 
at St. Mary's Isle at the request of the Earl of 
Selkirk. 




597 



Pag-e i$s, i- '^^- The mare, which was named | 
after the insane female who attempted the life 
if George III., was the property of Burns's 
friend, Mr. William Nicol. 

Page 155, /. 29. These lines were written on 
a page of the Statistical Account of Scotland, 
vol. xiii., containing a description of the 
parish of Balmaghie. The minister, after 
quoting one of the simple, rude rnartyrs' epi- 
taphs, adds — " The author of which no doubt 
supposed himself to have been writing poetry." 
This captious remark called forth Burns's lines. 
The book, with the poet's comment, is pre- 
served in the Mechanics' Institute, Dumfries. 
It is curious as the only expression of sympathy 
with the Covenanting cause which occurs in 
Burns. 

Page 156. While Miss Lewars was attending 
Burns she became slightly indisposed. "You 
must not die yet," said the poet; and writing 
the four lines on a goblet he presented it, say- 
ing, " This will be a companion for the ' Toast.' " 

Page 156, /. 9. On Miss Lewars recovering 
he said, " There is a poetic reason for it," and 
wrote these lines. 

Page 156, /. 13. " The Toast" was written 
by Burns on a goblet, and presented to Miss 
Lewars. 

Page 157, /. 13. Mr. Chalmers was a writer 
in Ayr, and in love. He desired Burns to 
address the lady in his behalf. 

Page 158. Burns arrived at Wanlockhead on 
a winter day, and was anxious to have the shoes 
of his mare jfrpsted. The smith was busy, and 
could not attend. Burns then scribbled these 
verses to Mr. John Taylor, a person of some | 
importance in the place. Through Taylor's 
influence the smith's services were secured; 
and for thirty years afterwards it is said Vulcan 
was in the habit of boasting '■ that he had never 
been weel paid but ance, and 'that was by a 
poet, who paid him in money, paid him in 
drink, and paid him in verse." 

Page 158, /. 9. The note on which Burns 
wrote these lines is of the Bank of Scotland, 
dated ist March, 1780. 

Pa^e 158, /. 19. The Loyal N'atives was a 
club m Dumfries, " more distinguished," says 
Cromek, " for drunken loyalty than for respect- 
ability and poetic talent." 

Page 158, /. 26. These lines — with one ex- 
ception, the only attempt of Burns in blank 
verse — occur in his common-place book, April, 
1783. It will be seen that the poet had not 
attained any considerable mastery over the 
most difficult of poetic measures. 

Page 159, /. 17. This epigram, it is said, 
silenced a gentleman who was talking mightily 
of dukes at the table of Maxwell of Terraifghty. 

Page 159, /. 25. These lines occur in one of 
the letters to Clarinda. 

Page 159, /. 37. These verses were first 
printed by Cromek. 



Page 160, /. 5. These lines occur in one of 
the letters to Clarinda. 

Page 160. Mr. Cobbett who first printed 
these lines, says: " It is our fortune to know a 
Mr. Kennedy, an aged gentleman, a native of 
Scotland, and the early friend and associate of 
Robert Burns. Both were born in Ayrshire, 
near the town of Ayr, so frequently celebrated 
in the poems of the bard. Burns, as is well 
known, was a poor peasant's son; and in the 
' Cotter's Saturday Night ' gives a noble 
picture of what we may presume to be the 
family circle of his father. Kennedy, whose 
boyhood was passed in the labours of a farm, 
subsequently became the agent to a mercantile 
house in a neighbouring town. Hence he is 
called, in an epitaph which his friend the Poet 
wrote on him, ' The Chapman.' These lines, 
omitted in all editions of Burns' works, were 
composed on Kennedy's recovery from a severe 
illness. On his way to kirk on a bright Sabbath 
morning, he was met by the Poet, who, having 
rallied him on the sombre expression of his 
countenance, fell back, and soon rejoined him, 
presenting him with the epitaph scrawled on a 
bit of paper, with a pencil." 

Page 161, /. 13. In some MS. copies these 
stanzas conclude " The Epistle to John Lapraik, 
an Old Scottish Bard." 

Page 162, /. 24. These verses, inscribed to 
Gavin Hamilton, were printed for the first time 
in Pickering's edition. 

Page 163, /. 17. These lines occur in a letter 
addressed by Burns to Mr. Robert Ainslie. 

Page 162,. Burns in early life sketched the out- 
lines of a tragedy, and the " Tragic Fragment " 
was "an exclamation from a great character — 
great in occasional instances of generosity, and 
daring at times, invillanies. He is supposed to 
meet a child of misery and exclaims to himself." 

Page 164. The following fragments are ex- 
tracted from Burns' common-place book, but the 
authorship is doubtful. 

Page 165, /. 27. The Tailor's epistle is as 
follows. Burns' reply was first published at 
Glasgow in 1801. 

EPISTLE FROM A TAILOR TO ROBERT 
BURNS. 
Wliat waefu' news is this I hear, 
Frae greeting I ean scarce forbear, 
Folk tell me, ye'er gawn aiFthis yeai 

Out o'er the sea. 
Aur lasses wliani ve lo'e sae dear 

■\Vill greet for thee. 
Weel wad I like war ye to stay. 
But, Kobin, since ye will away, 
I ha'e a word yet mair to say, 

And mayb'e twa ; 
May He protect us night and day 

That made us a'. 
AVhar thou art gaun, keep mind frae r»e, 
Seek Ilim to bear thee companie. 
And, Robin, whan ye come to die, 

Ye'll won aboon, 
An' live at peace an' unity 

Ayont tlie moon. 



%i 



7^- 




±£. 



H 



NOTES. 



Yell never say, my boiiie dear, 

Coiiie.gie s a kiss - 
Nae kissing then — ye'U grin an' sneer. 

An' itlRT liiss. 



ORab! la; 
An' steer n 
Or some d 

'tlK 



'iii:h the pricks, 
hi Nicks: 



Yell fin' 

I'm wae ttjr thee. 
But what's this conies wi' sic a knell, 
Amaist as loud as ony bell, 
"While it does mak' my conscience tell 

Me what is true, 
I'm but a ragget cowt niysel', 

Owre sib to you! 
"We're owre like those wha think it tit, 
Tnstuirtluiril...hllesfu'o' wit. 



lurk 1 



.'ht. 



But farewell, Rab, I maun awa'. 
May He that made us keen us a', 
For that wad be a dreadfu^ fa', 

And hurt us sair : 
Lad, ye wad never mend ava' ; 

Sae, Rab, tak' care. 

Page 167. This epitaph, and the following 
epigrams, appeared in the Kilmarnock, but 
were omitted in the first Edinburgh and sub- 
sequent editions. 

Pag^e 168, /. I. These lines first appeared in 
the edition published at Glasgow in 1801. 

Page 168, /. 9. These lines first appeared in 
the edition published at Glasgow in 1801. 

Page 168, /. 13. On Burns' arrival at Inverary 
the castle and inn were filled with visitors to the 
Duke, and the innkeeper was too busy to pay 
attention to the Poet and his friend. The epi- 
gram, which was first published in the Glasgow 
edition, is supposed to have been written on 
line of the windows. 

Page 169. John Stewart, eighth Earl of Gal- 
loway, who died in 1796. Burns disliked this 
nobleman, and his dislike descended in a 
shower of brilliant epigrams. 

Page 170, /. 33. Printed in Cromek's Reliques. 

Page 171, /. I. Printed in the Glasgow Col- 
lection, 1801. 

Page iTi,L 23. Printed in Cromek's Reliques. 

Page 172, /. 5. Printed in the Glasgow Col- 
lection, 1801. 

Page 172. Captain Grose was extremely 
corpulent. This epigram was printed in the 
Scots Magazine, June, 179T. 



J'age 172. Printed in the Glasgow Collection. 
1801. In a letter to Clarinda, in 1787, Burns 
refers to this epigram. " Did I ever repeat t > 
you an epigram I made on a Mr. Elphinstonc. 
who has given a translation of Martial, a famou-^ 
Latin poet'? The poetry of Elphinstone can 
only equal his prose-notes. I was silting in a 
merchant's shop of my acquaintance, waiting for 
somebody : he put Elphinstone into my hand, 
and asked my opinion of it ; I begged leave to 
write it on a blank leaf, which I did." 

Page 173. The epitaph was printed in the 
Kilmarnock edition. " Jamie " was James Hum- 
phrey, a mason in Mauchline, who was wont to 
hold theological disputations with the Poet. 

Page 173. " "Wee Johnny " was John "Wilson, 
the printer of the Kilmarnock edition, in which 
edition Burns wickedly inserted the epitaph. 
Wilson printed, unconscious that he had any 
other interest in the matter than a commercial 



Page 173,/. 5. This, and the two following epi- 
taphs, were printed in the Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 173. In the Kilmarnock, Edinburgh, 
and several subsequent editions, the first line 
of the " Bard's Epitaph " is printed : — 
Is there a whim-inspir'd fool. 

Page 174, /. 19. Printed in the Kilmarnock 
edition. In a copy in the Poet's handwriting 
the first line reads : — 

O ye who sympathise with virtue's pains. 

Page 174, /. 26. Goldsmith. R. B. 

Page 174, /. 27. Printed in the Glasgow 
edition, 1801. 

Page 174,/. 41. Burns' friend, James Smith, 
of Mauchline. This epitaph was printed in 
the Glasgow Collection. 

Page 176. These lines were inscribed on 
a pane of glass in Mr. M 'Murdo's house. 

Page 177, /. 2. The Right "Worshipful Mas- 
ter, Major-General James Montgomery. On 
the 24th of June (St. John's Day) the masonic 
club in ISIauchline, of which Burns was a 
member, contemplated a procession. Burns 
sent the rhymed note to Dr. Mackenzie, with 
whom he had lately been discussing the origin 
of morals. 

Page 177, /. 16. This tumbler came into the 
possession of Sir Walter Scott, and is still pre- 
served at Abbotsford. " Willie Stewart " was 
factor of the estate of Closeburn in Dumfries- 
shire. Pie died in 1812, aged 63. 

Page 178. This song was composed in 
honour of Miss Wilhelmma Alexander, sister 
of the Laird of Ballochmyle, whom Burns had 
met in one of his evening walks. 

Page 178, /. 15. Var. 

The lily h\ie and rose's dye 
Bespoke tlie lass 0' Ballochmyle. 

Page 178, /. 3, 2 col. Var. 

And all her other charms are foil'd. 




NOTES. 



599 




^a^e 178, I. 5, 2 col. I'ar. 

O if she were a country maid. 

Page 178. Burns wrote to B.Irs. Dunlop, 
December, 1791 : — 

" I have just finished the following song, 
which, to a lady the descendant of Wallace, 
and many heroes of his truly illustrious line, 
and herself the mother of several soldiers, needs 
neither preface nor apology. Thetircumstance 
that gave rise to the following verses was, look- 
ing over with a musical friend M' Donald's col- 
lection of Highland airs, I was struck with 
one, an Isle of .Skye tune, entitled Oran an 
Aoig, or The Song of Death, to the measure of 
which I have adapted my stanzas." 

Page 178, /. 42. Var. 

Now gay with the briglit setting sun. 
Page 179, /. 13. Var. 

Down by tlie burn, where birlien buds. 
fagc 179, I. 21. Var. 

Altho' the night were ne'er sae wet. 
Page 179, /. 33. The two first lines of this 
song are taken from an old Scotch ballad, 
printed in Johnson's " Museum." Mr. Cham- 
bers states that the second stanza was designed 
as a description of Charlotte Hamilton. 

Page 180, /. I. This song was written when 
Burns brought his wife home to EUisland. The 
second line was originally — 

I'll sliare wi' naebody. 

Page 180, /. 19. In Burns' MS. this line 
stood — 

She is a winsome wee thing. 
It was altered, as in the te.\t, by Mr. Thomson. 

Page 180. Duncan Gray was suggested 
by a somewhat licentious ditty published in 
Johnson's "Museum; " the first and part of the 
third line being retained. With reference to 
this song Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson, De- 
cember, 1792: — "The foregoing I submit to 
your better judgment ; acquit them or condemn | 
them as seemeth good in your sight. Duncan I 
Gray is that kind of horse-gallop of an air 
which precludes sentiment. 'The ludicrous is 
its ruling feature." 

Page 181, /. 13. Var. 

How blest the wild-wood Indian's fate - .VS. 

Page 181,2 col. About this song Burns wrote 
to Mr. Thomson, January, 1793 : — 

" The very name of Peter Pindar is an acqui- 
sition to your work. His ' Gregory ' is beau- 
tiful. I have tried to give you a_set of stanzas 
in Scots on the same subject, which are at your 
service. Not that I intend to enter the lists 
with Peter; that would be presumption indeed. 
My song, though much inferior in poetic merit, 
has, I think, more of the ballad simplicity in it." 

Dr. Wolcot's song (Peter Pindar) may be 
inserted here for purposes of comparison. 
" All ope. Lord Gregory, thy door! 
A midnight wanderer sighs ; 
Hard rush the rains, tlie temjiests roar, 
And lightningi cleave tlie skies. 



" Who conies with woe at tliis drear night, - 
A pilgrim of the gloom? 
If she whose love did once delight. 
My cot shall yield her room. 
" Alas! thou heard'st a pilgrim mourn, 
That once was prized by thee: 
Think of the rin^ by yonder burn 
Thou gav'st to love and me. 

" But should'st thou not poor Marion know, 
I'll turn my feet and part; 
And think tlie storms that round me blow 
Far kinder than thy heart." 

, Page 182, /. 13. A song under this title ap- 
peared in Johnson's " Museum" in 1788, which 
is said to have been written by Burns. " It is 
so rude and wretched a production," says Mr. 
Chambers, " that we cannot believe many 
words of it to have been supplied by so mas- 
terly a pen." 

Page 182. The heroine of this song was 
Miss Jessie Staig. 

Page 183, /. 16. Var. 

As simmer to nature, so 'Willie to me. Erekine. 

Page 183, /. 19. Var. 

Blow soft, ye breezes ; blow gently, ye billows. 
Erskine. 
Page 183, /. 22. Var. 

Flow still between us, thou dark-heaving main. 
Erskine. 
Page 183, /. 24. / ar. 

■While dying, I think that my 'Willies my ain. 
Erskine. 
Page 183, /. 31. This and the following line 
were taken from a song, to the same air, written 
by John Mayne, afterwards author of the Siller 
Gun, and published in the Star newspaper in 
1789. 

Page 183, /. 13, 2 col. Var. 

Ye mind na, 'mid your cruel joys. 
The widow's tears, the orphan's cries. 

Page 184. In July, 1793. Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson : — "I have just finished the follow- 
ing ballad, and, as I do think it in my best 
style, I send it to yon. Mr. Clarke, who wrote 
down the air from Mrs. Burns' wood-note wild, 
is very fond of it, and has given it a celebrity by 
teaching it to some young ladies of the first 
fashion here. . . . The heroine of the foregoing 
is a Miss M'Murdo, daughter to Mr. M'lVlurdo 
of Drumlanrig, one of your subscribers. I have 
not painted her in the rank which she holds 
in life, but in the dress and character of a 
cottager." 

Page 184, /. 21. In the original MS. Burns 
asks Mr. Thomson if this stanza is not original. 

Page iZ^, I. 1,2 col. Var. 

Thy handsome foot thou shalt not set 

In barn or byre to trouble thee. MS. copy. 

Page 184, /. 9, 2 col. In August, 1793, Burns 
wrote Mr. Thomson: — "I have tried my hand 
ori Robin A liaz'r, and you will probably think 
with Rttle success; but it is such a cursed, 
cramp, out-of-the-way measure, that I despair 




m 



600 



NOTES. 



of doing anything better to it. So much for 
namby-pamby. I may, after all, try my hand 
on it in Scots verse. There I always find my- 
self most at home." Pliillis the Fair is said 
to have been Miss M'Murdo, — sister of the hero- 
ine of There was a Lass, — and with whom the 
musician Clarke (who gave lessons to the young 
ladies) was in love. /'/i////i afterwards became 
Mrs. Norman Lockhart of Carnwath. 

Page 184, /. 34, 2 col. A mountain west of 
Strathallan, 3009 feet high. R. B. 

Page 185, /. 17. Burns wrote Mr. Thomsoil 
in August, 1793: — "That crinkum-crankum 
tune, Robin Adair, has run so in my head, and 
I succeeded so ill in my last attempt, that I 
have ventured, in this morning's walk, one 
essay more. You, my dear Sir, will remember 
an unfortunate part of our worthy friend Cun- 
ningham's story, which happened about three 
years ago. That struck my fancy, and I en- 
deavoured to do the idea justice, as follows." A 
lady with whom Cunningham was in love had 
jilted him on the appearance of a richer lover. 

Pag-e 185. In August, 1793, Burns wrote Mr. 
Thomson: — "Is Whistle, and. I'll come to 
you, my lad, one of your airs? I admire it 
much ; and yesterday I set the following verses 
to it." In some of the MSS. the first four lines 
run thus: — 

O whistle, and I'll come to thee, ray jo, 
O whiistle, autl I'l! come to thee, my jo. 
The' father and mother and a' should say no, 
O whistle, and I'll come to thee, my jo. 
In 1795, Burns wrote to Johnson : — " In Whis- 
tle and I'll come to ye, my lad, the iteration 
of that line is tiresome to my ear. Here goes 
what I think i-, an imiirovement: — 



Th^.'t\ith.'i'''M'iil ]ii.'tl'u''i'and'a' shoutd ga 
Thy Jeanic wUI venture wi' ye, my latV.' 






Page 186, /. 33. In September, 1793, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson : — " I have been turning 
over some volumes of songs, to find verses 
whose measures would suit the airs for which 
you have allotted me to find English songs. 
For Muirland Willie you have in Ramsay's 
Tea-table an excellent song, beginning, Ah, 
why those tears in Willie's eyes? As for The 
Collier's Dochter, take the following old bac- 
chanal." 

Page 186, /. 13, 2 col. In a letter to Clarinda 
(supposed to be written about February, 1790,) 
Burns writes: — " The following song is one of 
my latest productions, and I send it to you, as 
I should do anything else, because it pleases 
myself" It has been conjectured that Mrs. 
M'Lehose was the heroine. 

Page 186. In March, 1792, Burns wrote to 
Mr. Cunningham: — "Apropos, do you know 
the much-admired old Highland air called The 
S/ttor's Dochter.'' It is a first-rate favourite of 
mine, and I have written what I reckon one of 
my best songs to it. I will send it to you as it 
was sung with great applause in some fashion- 



able circles by Major Lobertson, of Lude, who 
was here with his corps." Allan Cunningham 
states that Wilt thou be my Dearie? was said 
" to have been composed in honour of Janet 
Miller of Dalswinton, mother of the present 
Earl of Mar, one of the most beautiful women 
of her time." 

Page 187. In May, 1794, Burns wrote to 
Mr. Thomson : — "Now, for six or seven months, 
I shall be quite in song, as you shall see by 
and by. I know you value a composition 
because it is made by one of the great ones as 
little as I do. However, I got an air, pretty 
enough, composed by Lady Elizabeth Heron, 
of Heron, which she calls The Banks of Cree. 
Cree is a beautiful romantic stream ; and as her 
ladyship is a particular 'riend of mine, I have 
written the following song to it." 

Page I'&T, 1.26. Burns wrote Mr. Thomson 
in 1794: — " The last evening as I was straying 
out, and thinking of O'er the Hills and far 
aviiay, I spun the following stanzas for it; but 
whether my spinning will deserve to be laid up 
in store, like the precious thread of the silk- 
worm, or brushed to the devil, like the vile 
manufacture of the spider, I leave, my dear 
Sir, to your usual candid criticism. I was 
pleased with several lines in it at first, but I 
own that now it appears rather a flimsy busi- 
ness." 

Page 187. In September, 1794, Burns wrote 
Mr. Thomson : " I am flattered at your adopting 
Ca' the Yowes to the Knotvcs, as it was owing 
to me that ever it saw the light. About seven 
years ago I was acquainted with a worthy 
little fellow of a clergyman, a Mr. Clunie, who 
sang it charmingly; and, at my request, Mr. 
Clarke took it down from his singing. When I 
gave it to Johnson, I added some stanzas to the 
song, and mended others, but still it will not do 
for you. In a solitary stroll which I took to- 
day, I tried my hand on a few pastoral lines, 
following up the idea of the chorus, which I 
would preserve. Here it is, with all its crudi- 
ties and imperfections on its head." The copy 
published in Johnson's " Museum " is much 
inferior to the text. 

Page 188, /. 21. In September, 1794, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson: — "Do you know a 
blackguard Irish song, called Onagh's IVater- 
fall? The air is charming, and I have often 
'regretted the want of decent verses on it. It 
is too much, at least for my humble rustic muse, 
to expect that every effort of hers shall have 
merit; still I think that it is better to have 
mediocre verses to a favourite air than none at 
all." 

Page 188, /. 13, 2 col. In sending this song 
to Mr. Thomson, 19th October, 1794, Burns 
writes: — "I met with some such words in a 
collection of songs somewhere, which I altered 
and enlarged: and to please you, and to suit 
your favourite air, I have taken a stride or two 
across my room, and have arranged it anew, 
as you will find on the other ] 





NOTES. 



Page i88, /. 31,2 col. The heroine of this 
song was Miss Lorimer, of Craigieburn. Dr. 
Currie prints the following variation : — 

Now to the streaming fountain, 

Or up the heatliy mountain, 
T'he hart, hind, and roe, freely, wildly-wanton, stray ; 

In twining hazel bowers 

His lay the linnet pours; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' san^s o' joy ; 
While the sun and thou arise to bless the day. 

When frae niy Chloris parted, 

Sad, cheerless, broken-hearted. 
The night's gloomy shades, cloudy, dark, o'ercast my 
sky. 

But when she charms my sight 

In pride of beauty's light. 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart 
'Tis then, 'tis then, I wake to life and joy. 

Page i8g, I. 19. In sending this song to Mr. 
Thomson, Novernber, 1794, Burns says: — 
" This piece has at loast the merit of being a 
regular pastoral : the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded." 

Page 189, /. I, 2 col. I'ar. 

And should the howling wintrv blast 
Disturb my lassie's midnight rest, 
I'll fiuild thee to niv faitlifu' breast 
And comfort thee, my dearie O. 

Page 189, /. 9, 2 col. With reference to this 
song Burns wrote Mr. Thomson, 19th October, 
1794 : — " I enclose you a musical curiosity, an 
East Indian air, which you would swear was a 
Scottish one. . I know the authenticity of it, as 
the gentleman who brought it over is a particu- 
lar acquaintance of mine. . . . Here follow the 
verses I intend for it." 

Page 189, /. 25, 2 col. Burns sent the first 
draft of this song to Mr. Thomson in April, 1793. 
It was then addressed to Maria (supposed to be 
Mrs. Riddel). 'When he sent the version in the 
text to Mr. Thomson in November, 1794, he 
had made some inconsiderable alterations, and 
substituted Eliza for Maria. 

Page 190, /. 13. Burns wrote to Mr. Thom- 
son, November, 1794: — "Scottish bacchana- 
lians we certainly want, though the few we have 
are excellent. . . . Apropos to bacchanalian 
songs in Scottish, I composed one yesterday for 
an air I like much. Lumps o' Pudding." 
Burns tells Mr. Thomson in a passage sup- 
pressed by Currie, that he intended this song as 
a picture of his own mind. 

Page 190, /. 29. Clarinda was the heroine of 
this song. 

Var. 
Now in her green mantle gay Nature arrays. 

Page 190, /. 31. Var. 
And birds warble welcomes in ilka green shaw. 

Page 190, /. 33. \'ar. 
Tlie primrose and daisy our glens may adorn. 

Page 190, /. 35. ]'ar. 
They torture my bosom, sae sweetly they blaw. 

Page 190, /. 36. Var. 
Thev mind me 0' Xannie — and Nannie's awa. 




Page 190, /. 41. Var. 

Come autumn sae pensive, in yellow array. 
Page 191, /. I. The heroine of this song 
Miss Lorimer, of Craigieburn. 

Page 191, /. 17. In February, 1795, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson: — " Here is another 
trial at your favourite air. ... I do not 
know whether it will do." 

Page 191, /. 58. In May, i79'5, Burns wrote 
to Mr. Thomson: —" The Irish air, Humoicrs 
of Glen, is a great favourite of mine, and as, 
except the silly stuff in the Poor Soldier, 
there are not any decent verses for it, I have 
for it as follows." 



Page 191, /. 62. p'ar. 

Far dearer to me are these humble broom bowers. 
Page 191, /. 63. Var. 
Where blue-bells and gowans lurk lowlv unseen. 

Page 192, l. 9. Miss Lorimer of Craigieburn 
was the heroine of this song. 

Page 192, /. 17. Var. 

Jeanie, I'm thine wi' a passion sincereet. 

Page 192, I. 1,2 col. This song is altered 
from an old English one. 

Page 193, /. 25. The chorus of this song was 
originally written — 

O this is no my ain body. 
Kind though the body be, &c. 

Page 193, /. 27, 2 col. With reference to this 
song Burns asked Mr. Thomson: — " How do 
you like the foregoing? I have written it within 
this hour. So much for the speed of my 
Pegasus: but what say you to his bottom? " 

Page 194, /. 33. In the original copy this 
line stood — 

lie up the Gateslack to my black cousin Bess. 

And on 3d June, 1795, Mr. Thomson wrote, 
objecting to the introduction of the word Gates- 
lack, and also to that of Dalgarnock in the 
verse which followed. On August 3d of the 
same year Burns replied: — "Gateslack, the 
word you object to, is the name of a particular 
place, a kind of passage up among the Lowther 
Hills, on the confines of this county. Dalgar- 
nock is also the name of a romantic spot near 
the Nith, where are still a ruined church and a 
burial-ground. However, let the first run 
' He up the lang loan,' &c." 

Page 195, /. 27. About May 17, 1796, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson : — "I once mentioned to 
you an air which I have long admired. Here's 
a health to them that's awa, hiney, but I for- 
get if you took any notice of it. I have just 
been trying to suit it with verses, and I beg 
leave to recommend the air to your attention 
once more. I have only begun it." yessie, the 
heroine of the song, was Miss Jessie Lewars, 
who acted as nurse during the Poet's illness. 



^" 




602 



NOTES. 




Page 196, /. 16. Burns composed this song 
while standing under the falls of Aberfeldy, near 
Moness, in Perthshire, September, 1787. 

Page 197, /. 11. This was the last song com- 
posed by Burns. It was written at Brow, on 
the Solway Frith, a few days before his death. 

Page 197. William, fourth viscount of Strath- 
allan, fell at the battle of CuUoden, while serving 
on the side of the rebels. In original edition 
in Johnson's Museum the first stanza runs as 
follows : — 



Roaring by my lonel; 
Page 197, /. 37. I'ar. 

Farewell fleeting, fickle treasure. 

Between Misfortune and Folly shar'dl 
Farewell peace, and farewell pleasure! 

Farewell flattering man's regard! 
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er me, 

Nor dare a hope niv fate attend; 
The wide world is all before me. 

But a world without a friend ! 

Page 197, /. 9, 2 col. " I composed these 
verses on Miss Isabella M'Leod of Raasay, 
alluding to her feelings on the death of her sis- 
ter, and the still more melancholy death of her 
sister's husband, the late Earl of Loudon, who 
shot himself out of sheer heart-break, at some 
mortifications he sufiered, owing to thederanged 
state of his finances.'' — ■ 13. 

Page 197, /. 25, 2 col. " I composed these 
verses out of compliment to a Mrs. Maclachlan, 
whose husband is an officer in the East Indies." 



Page 198, /. I. The heroine of this song was 
Miss Euphemia Murray, of Lintrose, who was 
an inmate of Ochtertyre House, when Burns 
was there on a visit. 

Page 198, /. 6, 2 col. The heroine of this song 
was Miss Margaret Chalmers. 

Page igg, /. i. This song was written in 
celebration of Miss Jennie Cruikshank, daughter 
of Mr. Cruikshank, of the High School, Edin- 
burgh. 

Page 199. This song was composed by Burns 
when he was about seventeen years of age. 
The subject was a girl in his neighbourhood 
named Isabella Steven, or Stein. According to 
Allan Cunningham, " Tibbie was the daughter 
of a pensioner of Kyle — a man with three acres 
of peat moss — an inheritance which she thought 
entitled her to treat a landless wooer with 
disdain." 

Page 199, /. 26, 2 col. " This song," Burns 
writes in a note, " I composed out of compli- 
ment to Mrs. Burns. N.B. — It was in the 
honeymoon." 

Page 200, /. I. This song was also composed 
out of compliment to Mrs. Burns. Corsincon 
is a hill at the head of Nithsdale, beyond which 
Mrs. Burns lived before the Poet brought her 
home to Ellisland. 



Page 200, A 25. With regard to this song 
Burns writes: — "'• I composed it out of compli- 
ment to one of the happiest and worthiest mai~ 
ried couples in the world, Robert Riddel, of j 

Glenriddel, and his lady." 

Page 200, I. 1,2 col. " Composed on the 
amiable and excellent family of Whitefoord 
leaving Ballochmyle, when Sir John's misfor- 
tunes obliged him to sell the estate." — B. 

Page 200, /. 17, 2 col. Burns writes concern- 
ing this song: — "The air is Masterton's, the 
song mine. The occasion of it was this: Mr. 
William Nicol, of the High School of Edin- 
burgh, during the Autumn vacation, being at 
Moffat, honest Allan, who was at that time on 
a visit to Dalswinton, and I, went to pay Nicol 
a visit. We had such a joyous meeting, that 
Mr. Masterton and I agreed, each in our own 
way, that we should celebrate the business." 

Page 200, /. 37, 2 col. In many editions this 
line is printed, " Wha last beside his chair shall 
fa." In Johnson's " Museum " it is given as in 
the text. It seems more in accordance with the 
splendid bacchanalian frenzy that he should be 
king who 

Rushed into the field and foremost flghtiiif! fell. 
Victory does not lie in stamina or endurance. 
For the moment intoxication is the primal good, 
and he is happiest who is first intoxicated. 

Page 201, /.I. At Lochmaben Burns spent 
an evening at the manse with the Rev. Andrew 
Jeffrey. His daughter Jean, a blue-eyed blonde 
of seventeen, presided at the tea-table. Next 
morning at breakfast the poet presented the 
young lady with the song. 

Page 201, /. 33. This song appears in the 
" Museum " with Burns' name attached. Mrs. 
Begg maintained that it was an old song which 
her brother brushed up and retouched. 

Page 203, /. 20. " Charming lovely Davies " 
is the heroine of this song. 

Page 203, I. IT, 2 col. Var. 

O weels me on my spinnin wheel. 
Page 203, /. 18, 2 col. Var. 

O weels me on my rock and reel. 
Page 203, /. 24, 2 col. Var. 

O weels me on my spinnin wheel. 
Page 203, I. 11^,1 col. Var. 

Alike to shield the birdie's nest. 
Page 203, /. 34, 2 col. Var. 

And echoes con the doolfu' tale. 
Page 204, /. 4. Var. 

Rejoice me at ray spinnin wheel. 
Page 204, /. 7. Var. 

O wha would change the humble state. 
Page 204, /. 9 and 10. Var. 

Amang their flarin, idle toys, 

Amang their cumbrous, dinsome joys. 




6o3 



Page 204, /. II, 2 col. In the original MS. 
the name of the heroine of this song was Rabina. 

Page 205. It will be noticed that this song 
is not distinguished by botanical correctness. 
Into the Posie Burns has gathered the flowers 
of spring, summer, and autumn. 

Page 206, /. I. This song appeared with 
Burns' name attached in Johnson's " Museum." 
The simple and finer version which follows was 
sent to Mr. Ballantine in 1787. " While here I 
sit," Burns writes, " sad and solitary, by the side 
of a fire in a little country inn, and drying my 
wet clothes." 



Page 206, /. 
) Clarinda. 



This song was addressed 



Page 206, /. 47 Par. 
Dire was the parting tliou bidst me remember. 

Page 207, /. I. Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson, 
September, 1793: — " The following song I have 
composed for Oran Gaoil, the Highland air 
that you tell me in your last you have resolved 
to give a place to in your book. I have this 
moment finished the song; so you have it glow- 
ing from the mint. If it suits you, well ! if not, 
"tis also well! " 

Page 207, /. 47. According to Dr. Currie this 
song was composed in honour of Mrs. Stewart 
of Stair. Gilbert Burns thought the verses 
referred to Highland Mary. Afton is an Ayr- 
shire stream, and flows into the Nith, near New 
Cumnock. 

Page 28, /. 13, 2 col. Clarinda is supposed 
to be the subject of this song. 



Page ■ 
this sons 



3, /. 28, 2 col. 
re old. 



The first four lines of 



Page 2og, /. 9. The foundation of this song 
was a short ditty, written, it is said, by one 
Lieutenant Hinches, as a farewell to his sweet- 
heart. 

Page 209, /. 25. This song was composed in 
honour of Mrs. Oswald, of Auchincruive. 
Page 209, /. 35, 2 col. I'ar. 

The tod was howling on the hill. 
Page 210, /. I. I'ar. 

The bum adown its hazelly path. 
Page 210, /. 3. Var. 

To join you river on the strath. 
Page 210, /. 9. Var, 



Page 210, I. 1, 2 col. This song is supposed 
to connect itself with the attachment to High- 
land Mary and the idea of emigration to the 
West Indies. 

Page 211, /. 13. Written in celebration of 
the personal and mental attractions of Miss 
Chalmers. 




Page 21.1, 1. 29. The chorus of the song is old. 

Page 211, /. 8, 2 col. Jean Armour is the 
yean referred to. 

Page 211, /. 9, 2 col. This is one of Burns' 
earliest productions. 

Page-ill, I. 25, 2 col. " I composed this song 
out of compliment to Miss Ann Masterton, the 
daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, the 
author of the air, Strathallan s Lament.'" — B. 

Page 212, /. I. The first four lines of this 
song are old. 

Page 212, /. 12. Var. 

The battle closes deep and bloody. 

Page 111, I. 17. The first stanza of this song 
is taken from a stall ditty, entitled The Strong 
Walls of Derry. 

Page 212, /. 33. Concerning this song Bums 
writes: — " Thisair is claimed by Neil Go w, who 
calls it a lament for his brother. The first 
half stanza of the song is old; the rest is mine." 

Page 213, /. I. " I composed this song," 
Burns writes, " pretty early in life, and sent it to 
a young girl, a very particular acquaintance of 
mine, who was at that time under a cloud." 

Page 213, /. I, 2 col. "This song," Burns 
writes, " is altered from a poem by Sir Robert 
Ayton, private secretary to Mary and Anne, 
Queens of Scotland. ... I think I have im- 
proved the simplicity of the sentiments by 
giving them a Scots dress." 

Page 213, /. 33. " This song," says Burns, 
" alludes to a part of my private history which 
it is of no consequence to the world to know." 

Page 2n, I. I. Burns says: "This tune is 
also known by the name of Lass, an I come 
near thee. The words are mine." 

Page 214, /. 25. These verses were inspired 
by Clarinda — the most beautiful and passionate 
strain to which that strange attachment gave 
birth. 

Page 215, /. 17. Allan Cunningham states 
that Burns considered this to be the finest 



Page 215, /. 49. " These verses," says Burns, 
" were composed on a charming girl. Miss 
Charlotte Hamilton, who is now married to 
James Mackittrick Adair, physician. She is 
sister to my worthy friend Gavin Hamilton, 
of Mauchline, and was born on the banks of 
the Ayr." 

Page 2x5, /. 34. This song was written soon 
after Burns' visit to Gordon Castle in 1787. 
The variations are from a copy in the Poet's 
handwriting. 

Page 216, /. 37. Var. 

There immix'd witli foulest stains. 



Page 216, /. 38. Var. 

From Tyranny's empurpled ] 



\i- 604 



jPa^'e 216, /. I, 2 ca/. Var. 

1 leave the tyrants and their slaves. 

Pag^e 216, /. 4, 2 col. Var. 

Torrid forests, ever gay. 

Page 217. In September, 1793, Burns wrote 
to Mr. Thomson : — "Blithe liae I been o'er the 
hill is one of the finest songs ever T made in 
my life.; and, besides, is composed on a young 
lady, positively the most beautiful, lovely 
woman in the world." The young lady was 
Miss Lesley Baillie. 

Page 217, /. 17. The first and second stanzas 
of this song are by Burns; the third and fourth 
are old. 

Page 217, /. 33. In August, 1793, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson: — " That tune, Cazild 
Kail, is such a favourite of yours, that I once 
more roved out yesterday for a gloamin-shot 
at the Muses; when the Muse that presides 
o'er the banks of Nith, or rather my old in- 
spiring dearest nymph, Coila, whispered me the 
following." 

Page 217, /. 49. Burns wrote Mr. Thomson 
September, 1793 : — "I have finished my song to 
Saw ye my Father ? and in English, as you will 
see. That there is a syllable too much for the 
expression of the air is true ; but allow me to 
say that the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet 
into a crotchet and a quaver is not a great 
matter: however, in that I have no pretensions 
to cope in judgment with you. The old verses 
have merit, though unequal, and are popular. 
My advice is to set the air to the old words, 
and let mine follow as English verses. Here 
they are." 

Page 2i8, /. 13. On the 19th October, 1794, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: — " To descend 
to business; if you like my idea of When she 
cam ben, she babbit, the following stanzas of 
mine, altered a little from what they were for- 
merly when set to another air, may perhaps do 
instead of worse stanzas." 

Page 218, /. 25. In September, 1793, Burns 
wrote Mr. Thomson : — " Fee him. Father. I 
enclose you Eraser's set of this tune when he 
plays it slow; in fact he makes it the language 
of despair. I shall here give you two stanzas 
in that style, merely to try if it will be any im- 
provement. Were it possible in singing to 
give it half the pathos which Eraser gives it in 
playing, it would make an admirable pathetic 
song. I do not give these verses for any merit 
they have. I composed them at the time in 
which ' Patie Allan's mither died — that was, 
about the back of midnight,' and by the lee- 
side of a bowl of punch which had overset every 
mortal in company except the hautbois and the 
Muse." 

Page 219, /. 9. In November, 1794, Burns 
wrote Mr. Thomson : — " You may think meanly 
of this, but take a look at the bombast original, 
and you will be surprised that I have made so 
much of it." 



Page 220, /. 21. This is partly composed on 
the plan of an old song known by the same 
name. R. B. The ballad appeared in the first 
Edinburgh edition. 

Pagei'21, I. I. On the 19th November, 1794, 
Burns wrote to Mr. Thomson: — " Well! I think 
this, to be done in two or three turns across my 
room, and with two or three pinches of IrisK 
blackguard, is not so far amiss." 

Page 211,1. \,icol. This fragment appeared 
in the first Edinburgh edition. 



Page 223, /. I. The poet proposed, for the 
sake of euphony, to substitute Lngirr for 
Stinchar, but in all his editions, from 1786 to 
1794, " Stinchar" is printed. 

Page 223, /. 33. This song was printed in the 
first Edinburgh edition. 

Page ■2'2i, I. 21, 2 col. Composed in August. 
This song appeared in the Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 224, /. 29. This song was printed in the 
first Edinburgh edition. 

Page 224, /. 49. Young's Night Thoughts 
R. B. 

Page 225, /. I. In the autobiographical 
sketch forwarded to Dr. Moore, Burns writes: 
— "I had taken the last farewell of my few 
friends; my chest was on the road to Greenock; 
and I had composed the last song I should ever 
measure in Caledonia — 

The gloomy night is gathering fast ; 
when a letter from Dr. Blacklock to a friend of 
mine overthrew all my schemes, by opening 
new prospects to my poetic ambition." The 
song was printed in the first Edinburgh edition. 

Page 12^. The "Farewell" was printed in 
the Kilmarnock edition. 

Page 225, /. 21, 2 col. Mr. Chambers states 
that the grand master reffered to in the te.xt was 
Major-General James Montgomery: elsewhere 
the grand master is said to have been Sir John 
Whitefoord. 

Page 225, I. 33, 2 col. Menie is the common 
abbreviation of Marianne. R. B. This chorus 
is a part of a song composed by a gentleman in 
Edinburgh, a particular friend of the author's. 
R. B. This song appeared in the first Edin- 
burgh edition. 

Page 226, /. 29. Concerning this song Burns 
wrote Mr. Thomson on the 14th November, 
1792 : — " The foregoing song pleases myself; I 
think it is in my happiest manner: you will see 
at first glance that it suits the air. The subject 
of the songisoneof the most interesting passages 
of my youthful days ; and I own that I should be 





NOTES. 



605 



much flattered to see the verses set to an air 
which would insure celebrity. Perhaps, after 
all, 'tis the still glowing prejudice of my heart 
that throws a borrowed lustre over the merits 
of the composition." 

Page ii(>. Burns stated, both to Mrs. Dunlop 
and Mr. Thomson, that Anld Lang- Sy?ie was 
old. It is, however, generally believed, that he 
was the entire, or almost the entire, author. 
In Pickering's edition the following variations 
are taken from a copy in the Poet's handwriting. 

Page 226, /. 26, 2 col. I'ar. 
And never thought upon. 

Page 226, /. 27, 2 col. Var. 

Let's hae a waught o' Malaga 
For auld lang syne. 

Page ZTfi, I. 29, 2 col. Var. 

For auld lang syne, ray jo. 

Page 226, /. 31, 2 col. Var. 

Let's hae a waught o' JIalaga. 

Page ■2'2-]. In September, 1793, Burns se.it 
this song to Mr. Thomson. " 'There is," he 
wrote, " a tradition, which I have met with 
ill many places of Scotland, that it " (the old 
air Hey, tiittie taitie) " was Robert Bruce's 
march at the battle of Bannockburn. This 
thought in my yesternight's evening walk 
warmed me to a pitch of enthusiasm on the theme 
of Liberty and Independence, which I threw 
into a kind of Scotch ode, fitted to the air, that 
one might suppose to be the gallant royal Scot's 
address to his heroic followers, on that event- 
ful morning. So may God ever defend the cause 
of truth and liberty as He did that day. Amen." 
Mr. Thomson wrote suggesting alterations, and 
Burns replied: — "'Who shall decide when 
doctors disagree? ' My ode pleases me so 
much, that I cannot alter it. Your proposed 
alterations would, in my opinion, make it 
tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you for put- 
ting me on reconsidering it, as I think I have 

much improved it I have scrutinized it 

over and iver; and to the world, some way or 
other, it snail go as it is.'' 

Page 227, /. 21, 2 col. In January, 1795, 
Burns wrote ./Ir. Thomson: — "A great critic 
(Aikin) on songs says that love and wine are 
the exclusive themes for song-writing. The 
following is on neither subject, and conse- 
quently is no song; but will be allowed, I 
think, to be two or three pretty good prose 
thoughts converted into rhyme." 

Page 228, /. 25. Of this song Burns says : — 
" The title of the song only is old; the rest is 
mine." In Johnson's " Museum " he published 
an early version, with the burden, " The 
gardener with his paidle." 

Page 230, /. 21. Gilbert Burns did not con- 
his brother the author of this song. 



side 



Page 1-1,1, I. 22. This song, which became 
lensely popular at the time, was published 
he DiDiifries Jourtial, 5th May, 1795. 



Page 232, /. I. This was written in an 
envelope to Mr. Cardonnel, the antiquary, 
enclosing a letter to Captain Grose. 

Page 232, /. 2, 2 col. Var. 

Sweet and harmless as a child. 

Page 232, /. 13, 2 col. This was one of Burns' 
earliest compositions. 

Page 233, /. I. This song appears in John- 
son's " Museum " without Burns' name. 

Page 233. M 'Pherson was a Highland free- 
booter, of great personal strength and musical 
taste and accomplishment. While lying in 
prison under sentence of death, he composed 
his Farewell, words and air, the former of 
v'hich began: — 



" I've spent inv 

Debauch d' I 

I squamierd t: 

Andfl-llto.- 

Butdaiit.i 



lid strength; 



And ruiituiil.v III ^1 
ay a tune and 
Beneat'h the gallows' tree. 



"U play a I 



dance it roun' 



When brought to the gallows' foot at Banff, 
he played his Farewell, and then broke his 
violin across his knee. His sword is preserved 
at Duff House. 

Page 233, /. 6, 2 col. This ballad refers to 
the contest between Mr. Erskine and Mr. Dun- 
das for the Deanship of the Faculty of Advo- 
cates. On the i2th January, 1796, Mr. Dun- 
das was elected by a large majority. 

Page 234, /. I, 2 col. Another version of 
this song is printed in Cromek's Reliques. The 
text is from a copy in the Poet's own hand- 
writing. 

Page 236. On 12th March, 1791, Burns 
wrote to Mr. Thomson: — "Lest I sink into 
stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on 
the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up the 
page in my own way, and give you another 
song of my late composition. . . . You must 
know abeautiful Jacobite air, There'll never be 
peace till Jamie comes hame. When political 
combustion ceases to be the object of princes 
and patriots, it then, you know, becomes the 
lawful prey of historians and poets." 

Page 236, /. 17. In a copy of this song in 
the Poet's handwriting the first stanza and 
chorus are thus given : — 

There wa.s a Birkie born in Kyle, 
But what na day o' what 11a style, 
I doubt it's hardly worth the while 
To be so nice with Davie. 



Page 236, /. 26. Jan. 25th, 1759, the dati 
my hardship's vital existence. R. B. 
Page 236, /. 35. Var. 

He'll gie his daddie's name a blaw. 
Page 236, /. 6, 2 col. Var. 

Ye'll gar the lasses lie asps'- 



%^. 




6o6 



NOTES. 



Page 237, /. 13. On 20th March, 1793, Burns 
wrote Mr. Thomson : — " This song is one of my 
juvenile works. I do not think it very remark- 
able, either for its merits or demerits." 

Page 237, /. 13, 2 col. V'ar. 

And ay I mint tlie witching smile. 

Page 237, /. 19, 2 col. Var. 

Wha spied I but my ain dear lass. 

Page 237, /. 23, 2 col. Var. 

Wi' fremit voice, quoth I, Sweet lass. 

Page ■2-ij, I. 32, 2 col. Var. 
And lov'lier look'd than ever. 

Page 237, /. 40, 2 col. Var. 
Syne wallow't like a lily. 

Page 237, /. 41, 2 col. Var. 

And sank within my arras, and cried. 

Page 238, /. 3. Var. 

Though wealth be sma', we're rich in love. 

Page 238, /. 5. Var. 

Quo' she. My grandsire left me gear. 

Page 238, /. 7. Var. 

And come, my am dear soger lad. 

Page 238, /. 17. Concerning this song Burns 
writes: — " The following song is a wild rhap- 
sody, miserably deficient in versification; but as 
the sentiments are the genuine feelings of my 
heart, for that reason I have a particular pleas- 
ure in conning it over." 

Page 239, /. I. Composed on the death of 
James Fergusson, Esq., Younger, of Craig- 
darroch. 

Page 239. " Bonie Lesley " was Miss Lesley 
Bailie, daughter of Mr. Bailie, of Ayrshire. 
Mr. Bailie, on his way to England with his two 
daughters, called on Bums at Dumfries. Burns 
mounted, accompanied them fifteen miles, and 
composed the song as he rode homewards. 

Page ■z-y), I. 24, 2 col. Jean Armour is the 
" Mauchline lady " referred to. 

Page 240. " My Montgomerie's Peggy," 
writes Burns " was my deity for six or eight 
months. ... A vanity of showing my parts in 
courtship, particularly my abilities at a billet- 
doux, which I always piqued myself upon, 
made me lay siege to her." Burns, after he had 
warmed into a passion for Peggy, found that 
she was pre-engaged, and confessed that it cost 
him some heartaches to get rid of the affair. 

Page 240, /. 29, 2 col. Dr. Currie inserted 
this in his first edition, but withdrew it on find- 
ing it was the composition of Helen Maria 
Williams. Burns had copied it: his MS. is now 
in the British Museum. 

Page 241, /. 25. A song, in several stanzas, 
similar to this occurs in the Jolly Beggars. 

Page 241 , /. 16, 2 col. This song was written 
on one of the anniversaries of Highland Mary's 
death. 

Page 241, /. 28, 2 col. I 'ar. 
Eternity can not eftace. 



Page 242, /. 3. Var. 

Time but the impression stronger makes. 
Page 242, /. 6. Var. 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest V 
Page 242, /. 41. Burns chanted these verses 
on hearing some one express his joy at General 
Dumourier's defection from the .service of the 
French Republic. 

Page 243, /. 19. Var. 

The primroses blush in the dews of the morning. 
Page 243, /. 23. Var. 
No birds sweetly singing, no flowers gaily spriug- 



mg. 



Page 243, /. 



Page 243, /. 32. Var. 
Alas! can I make you no better return? 

Page 245, /. 43. Charles James Fox. 

Page 246, /. 3. Thomas Erskine. A some- 
what different version of this piece is in Scots 
Magazine for January, 1818. 

Page 246, /. 13. Burns writes: — "The 
chorus of this song is old; the rest of it, such as 
it is, is mine." 

Page 248. The " Five Carlins " represent the 
five boroughs of Dumfries-shire and Kirkcud- 
bright, which were at the time contested by 
Patrick Miller of Dalswinton in the Whig, and 
Sir James Johnstone of Westerhall in the Torj', 
interest. Dumfries is " Maggie by the banks o' 
Nith; " Annan is " blinkin Besso' Annaidale;" 
Kirkcudbright "whisky Jean " of Galloway ; 
Sanquhar " black Joan frae Creighton peel;" 
and Lochmaben " Marjorie o' the monie Lochs." 

Page 248, /. 25, 2 col. Sir James Johnstone. 

Page 248, /. 33, 2 col. Captain Miller of 
Dalswinton. 

Page 249, /. 9. King George HL 

Page 249, /. 12. The Prince of Wales. 

Page 249, /. 25, 2 col. This song, founded 
on an old ballad, was printed in Johnson's 
" Museum." 

Page 250, I. 48. / 'ar. 

Sac kend in martial story. 

Page 250, I. 26, 2 col. Var. 

I'll breathe this exclamation. 

Page 251, /. I. Concerning this song Bums 
writes : — " The chorus I picked up from an old 
woman in Dunblane; the rest of the song is 
mine." 

Page 251, /. 25. Another version of this 
song will be found p. 191, 1. i. 

Page 252, /. II. Allan Cunningham mentions 
a report that Burns wrote these verses in humo- 
rous allusion to the condition in which Jean 
Armour found herself before marriage. 

Page 252, /. 21. This is founded on an old 
song. 




Page i'-)i, I. 47. This is founded on an old 
song. 

Page 253, /. 25. This song was altered by 
Burns from a Jacobite ditty. 

Page 254, /. 17. Another version of this song 
will be found p. 181, 1. 24. 

Page 257, /. 33. It is doubted whether Burns 
was the author of this song. 

Page 257, I. 25. 2 col. Of this song Burns 
writes: — "These were originally English ver- 
ses; I gave them their Scots dress." 

Page 258, /. 13. Part only of this song is by 
Burns. 

Pagez^S, 1. 31. Part only of this song appears 
to have been written by Burns. 

Page 258, /. 13, 2 col. Of this song Burns 
writes: — " The chorus is old: the rest of it is 
mine." 

Page 259, /. 1,2 col. The foundation of this 
song is old. 

Page 260, /, 
ballad. 

Page 261, /. 13. "The last stanza of this 
song," Burns writes, " is mine. It was composed 
out of compliment to one of the worthiest fellows 
in the world, William Dunbar, Esq., W.S. Edin- 
burgh, and colonel of the Crochallan Corps, a 
club of wits who took that title at the time of 
raising the Fencible regiments." 

Page 262, /. I, 2 col. The first four lines of 
this song are old. 

Page 262, /. 17. The second verse of this song 
is by Burns. 

Page 262, /. 33. Concerning this ballad Gil- 
bert Burns says: — " When Mr. Cunninghameof 
Enterkin came to his estate, two mansion houses 
on it, Enterkin and Anbank, were both in a 
ruinous state. Wishing to introduce himself 
with some eclat to the county, he got temporary 



I. This is founded on an old 



erections made on the banks of Ayr, tastefully 
decorated with shrubs and flowers, for a supper 
and a ball, to which most of the respectable 
families in the county were invited. It was a 
novelty, and attracted much notice. A dissolu- 
tion of Parliament was soon expected, and this 
festivity was thought to be an introduction to a 
canvass for representing the county. Several 
other candidates were spoken of, particularly 
Sir John Whitefoord, then residing at Cloncaird 
(commonly pronounced Glencaird), and Mr. 
Boswell, the well-known biographer of Dr. John- 
son. The political views of the festive assem- 
blage, which are alluded to in the ballad, if they 
ever e.\isted, were, however, laid aside, as Mr. 
Cunninghame did not canvass the county." 

Page 265, /. 9. Burns says the second and 
fourth stanzas of this song were written by him. 

Page 266, /. I. This song is founded on an 
old ballad. 

Page 268, /. 25. The last two verses of this 
song are by Burns. 

Page 269, /. 37, 2 col. Th^i " Heron Bal'ads " 
were written on the occasion of the Stewartry 
of Kirkcudbright being contested, in 1795, by 
Mr. Heron of Kerroughtree in the Whig, and 
Mr. Gordon of Balmaghie in the Tory, interest. 

Page 270, /. 14, 2 col. Var. 



Page 273, /. I. This song was produced at a 
festive meeting of the Kilmarnock Masonic 
Lodge, presided over by Mr. William Parker. 

Page 275, /. 7. Gilbert Bums was of opinion 
that his brother did not write this song. 

Page 277, /. 5, 2 col. Burns states concerning 
this song : — "I added the four last lines by way 
of giving a turn to the theme of the poem, such 
as it is." 

Page 278, /. I, 1 col. The text has been col- 
lated with a copy in the Poet's handwriting. 




GLOSSARY. 



Page 

K\all 2 

Aback, away from 5 

Abeigh, at a shy distance ... 53 

Aboon, abovr 79 

Abread, abroad, in sight ... 74 

Abreed, iti breadth 53 

Abusin', abusing 126 

Acquent, acquainted 201 

A'-day, all day 26 

XdXe, putrid water 99 

Advisement, advice 204 

Ae, one 25 

only 246 

AK,o_f 6 

Afi"-hand, at once 30 

AfiT-loof, ejctemporaneously ... 77 

Afore, before 46 

Aften, often 2 

\-%\ey, off the right li>ie ... 54 

A\h\m9,, perhaps 4 

Aik, ati oak 89 

Aiken, oaken 234 

Ain, oion 16 

Air, early 108 

Airl-penny, earnest money . . . 202 

Airles, earnest 7noney .... 132 

Airn, iron 29 

Aims, irons 93 

Airt, direction 199 

the point from which the ivind 

blows 210 

to direct 254 

Airted, directed 142 

K\Kh, an oath 11 

Aiths, oaths 80 

Aits, oats 6 

Aiver, an old horse 37 

Aizle, a hot citider 46 

Ajee, to the one side 265 

Alake! alas! 8 

Alang, along 178 

Amaist, almost 58 

Amang, among 18 

An', and 2 

An's, and is 58 

Ance, once i 

Ane, one 11 

Anes, ones 4 

Anither, atwther 33 

Artfu', artful 223 

Ase, ashes 45 

Asklent, obliquely 140 

aslant 180 

Asteer, astir 46 

A'thegither, altogether .... 166 

Athort, athiuart 210 



Page h'ue eoL 

Atween, between lio 34 

Aught, eight 53 27 2 

Aughteen, eig/tteen 239 14 2 

Aughtlin.s, anything, in the least 151 8 2 

Auld, old I 2 

K\x\ii^, as old as 122 31 2 

Aulder, older 246 34 

Auldfarran, sagacious .... 11 21 

Aumous, alms 48 10 2 

Ava, at all 2 14 

Awa, away 2 5 

Awe, to owe 245 32 

Awee, a little titne 31 7 

Awfii', awful 93 47 

Awkart, awktvard 77 28 

Awnie, bearded 6 30 

Ay, always 33 2 

Ayont, beyond 23 39 

BA', a ball 57 62 

Babie-clouts, baby-clothes . . . 213 i 

Backets, buckets 96 ii 

Bade, endured 25 43 

desired 108 20 

Baggie (dim. o^ bag), the stotnach 53 2 

Bainie, bony, vniscular .... 82 

Bairns, children 29 23 

Bairntime, a family of children . 37 23 

Baith, both 4 iS 

Bakes, biscuits 17 30 

Ballats, ballads 114 20 

Ban', band 128 8 

Banes, bones 5 '9 

Bang, a stroke. An unco bang, a 

heavy stroke or effort ... 25 43 

Bannet, a bonnet 268 13 2 

bannock, a cake of oatmeal bread 142 12 

Bardie, dim. ai bard 9 2 

Barefit, barefooted 15 23 

Barkit, barked 4 10 

Barkin, barkiitg 9 9 

Barm, _j/<?rti/ 170 13 

Barmie, of, or like barm ... 34 20 

Batch, rt/ar/y 15 43 

Batts, the botts 23 13 

Bauckie-bird, the bat 48 2 

Baudrons, a cat 3° 13 

Bauks, cross-beatns 45 25 2 

Baiik-en', end of a bank or cross- 
beam 45 33 2 

Bauld, bold 11 25 

Bauldly, boldly 47 4 

Baumy, balmy 205 16 

Bawk, an open space in a cornfield, 

generally a ridge left untilled 199 2 



^C3^ 




^ 



ilr 6io 



GLOSSARY. 



Page 
Baws'nt, having a ivhite stripe down 

the face i 

Bavvlie, a familiar name for a dog \-yj 

Be't, be it .7 

Bear, barley 6 

Beastie, dim. o^ beast 54 

Beets, adds fuel to fire .... 58 

V,(t{^ , befall 223 

Behint, behind 10 

Belang, belong to 239 

'Be\ang'd, belonged to 130 

Beld, bald 201 

Bellum, a tioise, an attach . . . 122 

BMyfu', bellyful 71 

Bely ve, by and by 62 

Ben, into the spence or parlour . 38 
Benmost bore, the innermost recess, 

or hole 49 

BeihanVit, the grace after 7neat . 72 

Beuk, a book 50 

Devil's pictur'd beuks, cards . 6 

Bicker, a luoodcu dish .... 7 

afeiu steps unwittingly ... 20 

VAA, to wish, or ask 150 

Bide, to stand, to endure ... 13 

Biel, a habitation 71 

Bield, shelter 69 

Bi&n, plentiful 57 

comfortably 203 

Big, to build 267 

Bigg, to build 265 

Bigs, builds 43 

Biggin, building 2 

^\\\,abull 31 

Billie, a good fellow i 

Billies, yoiing fellows 5 

Bings, heaps of anything, such as 

turnips, potatoes 24 

Birdies, dim. of ^^Vi/j ig6 

Birk, the birch 148 

Birks, birches 179 

Birken, birche?t 147 

Birken shaw, a small birch ivood 198 

Birkie, a spirited felloiu ... 17 

Birring, whirring 42 

Birses, bristles 151 

Bit, crisis 31 

Bizzard gled, a kite 271 

Bizz, a bustle 32 

Bizzy, busy 49 

Bizzie, busy 126 

Bizzies, buzzes 121 

Black Bonnet, the elder .... 15 

Blae, blue 127 

sharp, keen 141 

Blastie, a term of contempt . . 74 

Blastit, blasted, withered ... 2 

Blate, shamefaced 31 

Blather, bladder 8 

Blaud, to slap 29 

a quajitity of anything ... 77 

Blaudin', /<'/;'/«^ 128 

Blaw, to blow 54 

to brag 76 

Blaws, blows 191 

Blawn, blown 99 



Page 

V>\z.'KXi\, had blown it .... 50 

Blcatin, bleating 80 

Bleerit, bleared 182 

Bleeze, a blaze 93 

Bleezin, blazing 32 

Blelluni, an idle talking fellow . 91 

Blether, the bladder 33 

nonsetise 77 

Blethers, nonsense 38 

Bleth'rin, talking idly .... 15 

Blin', blind 180 

Blins, blinds 208 

Blin't, blinded 261 

Blink, a blink o' rest, a short period 

of repose 3 

a short titne 19 

a moment 77 

a look 94 

Blinks, looks smilingly .... 3 

Blinkers, a term of contempt . . 9 

pretty girls 149 

Blinkin, smirking 15 

Blirt and bleary, yf/j- of crying . 254 
Blitter, the mire S7iipe .... 269 
Blue-gown, oiie of those beggars who 
get atinually on the king^s birth- 
day a blue coat or gown •with a 

badge 81 

Blude, blood 93 

Bluid, blood 10 

Bludie, bloody 137 

Bluidy, bloody 13 

Blume, bloom 206 

Bluntie, a sniveller, a stupid person 203 

Blypes, large pieces 47 

Bocked, vomited 55 

Boddle, a small coifi 26 

Boggie, dim. oi bog 269 

Bogles, ghosts 92 

Bonie, beautiful i 

Bonnocks, thick cakes of oatmeal 

bread 12 

Boord, board 31 

Boortrees, elder shrubs .... 31 

Boost, must needs 36 

Bore, a hole or 7-ent 93 

Bouk, a corpse 230 

Bouses, drinks 4 

Bow-hough'd, crook-thighed . . 207 

Bow-kail, cabbage 44 

Bow't, crooked 44 

Brae, the slope of a hill .... 54 

Braid, broad 12 

Braid Scots, broad Scotch ... 27 

Braid-claith, broad-cloth ... 15 

Braik, a kitid of harrow ... 77 

Braing't, reeled forward ... 53 

Brak, did break 32 

Brak's, broke his 92 

Brankie, well attired .... 269 
Branks, a kind of wooden curb for 

horses 20 

Brany, brandy 125 

Brash, sickness 8 

Brats, rags 12 

Brattle, a short race 53 




GLOSSARY. 



6ii 



Page line c 

Braw, hatifisoine i 13 

Y>x?i.vi\y , perfectly 25 39 

Y>,x7\\\c^, morbid sheep .... 79 38 

Breastie, dim. o{ breast .... 54 20 

}}xc:\<,\\\., did spring up or for-jjard 54 9 

Brechan, a horse-collar .... 157 14 

Breckan, ferti 191 27 

Bree,y«/(r?, liquid 815 

Breeks, breeches 9 20 

Brent, straight 93 22 

smooth, itnivrinkled .... 201 20 

Brewin, brewing 29 33 

Brief, a writing 166 i 

Brig, bridge 25 31 

Brither, brother 79 3' 

Brithers, brothers 11 28 

Brock, a badger 3 10 

Brogue, a trick 32 zi 

Broo, mater 27 28 

broth 163 10 

Brooses, races at country weddings 
who shall first reach the bride- 
groom's house oti returning 

frotn church S3 15 

Browst, as much malt liquor as is 

brewed at a time .... 255 15 

Browster-wives, ale-house wives . 126 23 

Brugh, burgh 25 12 

Brughs, boroughs 9 26 

Brulzie, a broil 80 42 

Brunstane, brimstone .... 917 

Brunt, burned 45 6 

Brust, burst 9 36 

Buckie, dim. oibuck iii 10 

'^wcV%\^\w, an inhabitant of Virginia 8i 26 

Buff, to beat 127 15 

Bughtin-time, the time of collectitig 

the sheep in the pens to be milked 179 10 
Buirdly, strong, imposing-looking, 

well-knit 3 3 

Buke, book 104 32 

Bum, to hum 79 30 

Bum-clock, a beetle 611 

Bumming, making a noise like a bee 31 33 

Bummle, a blunderer .... 71 32 

Bunker, a chest 93 25 

Burdies, damsels 94 12 

Bure, bore, did bear 53 32 

Burns, streams 43 3 

Burnie, dim. o{ burti 47 28 

Burnewin, i.e. burn the "wind, a 

blacksmith 7 4' 

Bur-thistle, the spear-thistle . . 125 21 

Busking, dressing, decorating . 263 3 

Buskit, dressed 25 44 

Busks, adorns 114 21 

Buss, a bush 189 ig 

Bussle, a bustle 10 27 

But, ivithout 189 56 

But an' ben, kitchen and parlour 17 28 

By, past 32 34 

apart 54 12 

By attour, /« the tieighbourhood , 

outside 254 33 

Byke, a multitude 52 3 

a bee-hive 164 7 



Page line coi . 

CA', to drive 32 35 2 

a call 47 3 

Ca'd, named i 26 

driveti 91 25 

Ca's, calls 2 19 

Ca't, called 53 12 2 

Ca' throu', to push forward . . 268 25 2 

Cadger, a carrier 48 12 2 

Cadie, a fellow 12 10 

Caff, chaff 41 24 

Cairds, tinkers 35 17 

Calf-vvard,rt smallinclosureforcalves 22 33 

Callans, boys 80 7 

CaWex, fresh 14 4 

Callet, a trull 48 32 

Cam, came 29 17 

Cankert, cankered 124 37 

Cankrie, cankered 148 40 

Canna, cannot 10 17 

Cannie, carefully, softly ... 12 2 

Cannilie, dexterously .... i-j ■n 

Cantie, in high spirits .... 47 

Cantin', canting 128 20 

Cantrip, a charm, a spell ... 93 33 

Cape-stane, cope-stone .... 33 27 

Cap'rin, capering 51 11 2 

Careerin, cheerfully 47 31 2 

Carl, a carle 148 36 

Carlie, dim. oi carle 249 16 

CaxVm, an old woman .... 11 6 

Cartes, cards 58 38 

Cartie, dim. of rrt?-/ 159 4 2 

Caudrons, cauldrons 30 15 

Cauf, a calf 255 21 2 

Cauk and keel, chalk arid red clay 95 38 

Cauld, cold 5 18 

Caulder, colder 156 20 

Cau'ps, Tvooden drinking vessels . 18 32 

Causey, causeway 27 23 

Cavie, a hen-coop 51 31 

Chamer, chamber 95 72 

Change-house, a tavern .... 17 28 

Chap, afelloiv 11 21 

Chapman, rt/t'(^/rt>- 91 i 

Chaup, a blow 7 42 

Cheek for chow, cheek by jowl . 10 33 

Cheep, chirp 29 23 2 

Cheerfu', cheerficl 58 23 

Chiels, young fellows 3 3 

Chimla, chimney 150 13 

Chimlie, chimney 45 26 

Chhle^xmg, trembling luith cold . 55 23 

Chows, chews 7 i 

Chuckie, dim. of c/iMC,4r .... 108 27 

Christendie, Christendom . . . 200 20 « 

Chuffie,fat-faced 10 33 

Clachan, a hamlet 20 i 

Claise, clothes 32 12 

Claith, cloth 23 5 

Claith'd, clothed 214 5 2 

Claithing, clothing 19 4 

Clamb, clomb 201 26 

Clankie, a sharp stroke .... 269 18 

Clap, a clapper 41 26 

Clark, clerkly , pertaining to eru- 
dition 124 8 




w 



J- 6l2 



¥^^ 



GLOSSARY. 



Clarkit. wrote 
Clarty, dirty ■ 
Clash, idle talk 
to talk 



77 


27 


42 




16 


13 


19 


9 


^^ 


31 


28 


IS 


81 


24 


32 


31 



Clatter, to talk idly ..... 8 
Kintra clatter, the talk of the 

country 252 

Claught, caught 95 

Claughtin, catching at anything 

greedily 245 

Claut, to snatch at, to lay hold of 
a quantity scraped together by 

niggardliness 182 

Clautet, scraped 37 

Claver, clover 204 

Clavers, idle stories 

Claw, scratch 

Clean, handsome 

Cleckin, a brood 

Cleed, to clothe 

Cleeding, clothing 

Cleek, to seize 

Cleekit, linked themselves . . . 

Clegs, gadflies 

Clink, to rhyme 

money 

Clinkin, sitting down suddenly . 
Clinkumbell, the church bell-ringe. 

Clips, shears 33 

Clishmaclaver, idle conversation 
Clockin-time. hatching-time . 

Cloot, the hoof 

Clootie, Satan 31 2 

Clours, bumps or swellings after 

a blow 80 2 

Clouts, clothes 29 22 

C\oul, to patch 51 8 

a patch 231 40 

Clud, a cloud 84 15 

Cluds, multitudes 230 28 

QXwft, a portion of cloth or yarn . 207 20 
Clunk, the sound emitted by Hqrior 
•ivhen shaken in a cask or bottle, 
when the cask or bottle is half 

empty 51 26 

Coatie, dim. of rort/ 251 16 

Coaxin, coaxing 78 35 

Coble, a fishi7ig-boat 53 2 

QozV, to erect 79 28 

Cocks, good fellows 81 2 

Cockie, dim. of cock., a good fellow 108 29 

Cod, a pillow 250 9 

Co'er, to cover 52 36 

Coft, bozight 94 30 

Cog, a wooden dish 7 34 

Coggie, dim. of iTi?^ 37 3^ 

Coila, from Kyle, a district of 
Ayrshire, so called, saith tra- 
dition, from Coil, or Coila, a 
Pictish monarch .... 79 31 

Collie, a country dog i 23 

Collieshangie,rt« uproar , a quarrel 110 33 
Commans, commajidmetits ... 14 21 

Comxa' , co/ning 132 25 

Compleenin, complaitiing . . . 202 27 
Converse, conversation .... 150 23 



Page line col. 

Cood, the cud 7 i 

Cook, fools, ninnies ..... 57 31 
Cookit, that appeared and disap- 
peared by fts 47 3 » 

Coost, did cast 32 33 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen dish . 31 5 
Fozvls whose legs are clad with 
feathers are also said to be 

cootie 42 30 2 

Corbies, crows 27 45 

Com\, fed with oats ..... 53 11 2 

Corss, the market-place . . . 151 27 

Couldna, could not 164 32 2 

Counted, considered 124 52 

Countra, country 5 2 

Coiithie, kindly, loving .... 45 21 
Cowe, to terrify. Cowe the cadie, 

terrify the fellow .... 12 10 

to lop 30 17 

a fright 80 13 2 

Cowp the cran, to tumble over . 166 15 

Cowpit, tumbled 22 2 

Cowpet, tumbled 126 19 2 

Cow' rin. C07ue ring 54 19 

Cowr, to cozuer 128 i 

Cour, to cozuer 94 33 

Cowt, a colt 37 37 

Cowte, a colt 104 24 

Cozie, cozy 18 7 

Crabbit, crabbed 63 

Cx^cV, a story or harangue . ■ 10 23 

talk 19 18 

Cr^cUin, conversing, gossiping . 4 7 

Cr^h, a croft 36 36 

Craft rig, a croft ridge .... 227 27 

Craig, the throat 96 32 

C-!M%\<t,^\m. oi craig, the throat 51 17 2 

Craigs, crags ........ 146 16 

Cr^wgy , c j-aggy _ 89 45 

Craiks, landrails 84 25 

Crambo-clink, rhymes .... 71 14 

Crambo-jingle, rhymes .... 76 33 

Crankous, irritated ii 35 

Cranreuch, hoar frost .... 48 6 

Cx3.'^,to crop 84 12 

Craps, crops 34 27 

Craw, tocronu 42 30 2 

CxAwXvn, crawling . ..... 74 " 

Creel, my senses wad be in a creel, 

to be crazed, to be fascinated 78 31 2 
Creepie-chair, the' chair or stool of 

repentance 213 g 

Creeshie, greasy 29 8 

Crocks, old sheep 126 33 

Croods, coos 79 52 

Crooded, cooed 242 33 2 

CroriiG, a comrade ...... 15 i 

Croon, a holloiv and cotititiued 

moan 47 92 

Crouchie, crook-backed .... 46 29 2 

Crouse, gleefully, ivith spirit . . 4 7 

CxoviAie, porridge 231 2 

Crowdie-time, breakfast-time . . 15 14 
Crummock, a staff with a crooked 

head 94 '5 

Crump, crisp 15 27 




GLOSSARY. 



Crunt, a hlcnv on the head with a 

cudgel 80 4 

Cuddle, to fondle loi 23 

Cuifs, blockheads, fiinnies ... 89 
Cummock, a short staff ivith a 

crooked head 71 19 

Cunnin, entitling 202 16 

Curch, a female head-dress . . 252 17 

Curchie, a curtsey 14 25 

Cur-muxnn'g, a rumbling noise . 23 14 

Ciirpin, the crupper 46 9 

Curple, the crupper 125 28 

Cushats, wood-pigco7is ... 203 25 
Custock, the centre of a stem of 

cabbage 45 5 

Cutty, short, bob-tailed .... 94 25 

CmI, fashion, shape ... . 96 2 

DKDV)\^, father 49 7 

Daez't, stupefied 161 5 

Baffin, merriment 27 

Hah, foolish 4 27 

DaWi,, deals of wood for sitting on 15 34 
Daimen-icker, att ear of corn now 

and theti 54 33 

D.iisie, the daisy 53 8 

Damies, dim. oi dames .... 108 33 

Tiam., water 13 40 

Y)an\.o'a, to sttbdue 140 21 

Dang, knocked, pushed .... 239 8 

Dappl't, dappled 53 9 

Darin, daring 210 14 

Darklings, darkling 45 25 

Daud, to pelt 29 19 

Daudin',/f///«^ 126 8 

Dauntingly, dauntlessly .... 233 22 

YiaMX, to dare 46 11 

Daur't, dared 53 n 

Daur na, dare not 205 7 

Daut, tofotidle, to make much of 140 26 

Dawte, to fondle .255 26 

V>avnh, fondled, caressed ... 31 23 

Daurk, a day's labour .... 54 1 

Daviely, spiritless 137 8 

Davie's, King David's . . . . 166 12 

Daw, daivn 200 23 

Dawin, the daiuning 252 31 

T)3.v,Ai., lumps, large pie.es . . 18 36 

Dead-sweer, but little inclined . 73 23 

Deave, to deafen 30 23 

Deils, devils 5 48 

Deil ma care, devil may care . . 21 38 

Deil haet, devil a thing .... 5 34 

Deleerit, delirious 46 17 

Delvin, delving 73 4.^ 

Descrive, to describe 79 27 

Deservin, deser'oitig 54 8 

TLitfsexym' I, deserving of it . . . 151 26 

Deuk, a duck 249 10 

Devel, a stunnitigblow .... 42 33 

Dictiouar, a dictionary .... 122 27 

Diddle, to stri/ce or Jog .... 148 30 

Differ, differetice 41 22 

Dight, cleaned from chaff ... 41 23 

to wipe a-'uay 51 i 

T)m, dun ill colour 207 11 



Pa<li: Un< <■ 

Dine, dimmer-time 226 39 

Ding, to surpass 32 13 

be pushed or jtpset 36 12 

Dings, knocks 140 3 

Dink, neat, trim 246 33 

Dinna, do tiot 19 7 

Dinner'd, dined iii 20 

Dirl, a vibrating blow .... 21 39 

to vibrate 93 3° 

Dirl'd, executed with spirit . . 239 6 

Disagree!, disagreed 127 26 

Dizzen, a doze >i 5 30 

Dizzie, dizzy 77 34 

Dochter, daughter 248 25 

Doin', doing 110 30 

Doited, stupefied 7 13 

Donsie, unlucky 41 31 

Dooked, ducked 5° 32 

Dools, sorrows loi i 

Doolfu', sorrowful 122 26 

Doos, pigeons 230 13 

Dorty, supercilious, huffy ... 12 33 

Douce, grave, sober 27 22 

Doucely, soberly 9 27 

Doudled, dandled 262 22 

Dought, could, might .... 140 3 
Dought na, did not, or did not 

choose to 168 2 

Doup, the backside 101 26 

Doup-skelper, one that strikes the 

tail no 31 

Dour, stuL-iorn 207 i 

Doure, stubborn 55 i 

DouiST, more decorous .... in 12 

Dow, do, can 19 12 

Dowe, do, can 165 16 

Dowff, pithless, silly 77 36 

Dowie, lo7(i-spirited 33 31 

TiownahxAe, cannot statid ... 13 14 
Downa do, a phrase signifying 

impotence 249 23 

Doylt, stupid 8 27 

Doylm, walkitig stupidly ... 51 34 

Dozen'd, impotent, torpid . . . 141 27 

Dozin, stupefied, impotent . . . 202 29 

Draiglet, draggled 254 3 

Drants, sottr liumours .... 245 27 

Drap, drop, a small quantity . . 7 23 

Drappie, dim. of (/rrt/ 161 13 

Drapping, dropping 62 10 

Draunting, drawling, of a slow 

enunciation ..... 121 20 

Draw't, draw it . . ... 166 17 

Dree, to endure ... ... 252 18 

Dreeping, dripping . ■ • • 35 13 

Dreigh, tedious ...... 53 8 

Dribble, drizzle ....... 54 29 

Driddle, to play 50 31 

to move slowly ... . . 448 33 
Drift, a drove. Fell aff the drift, 

wandered from hiscotnpanions 44 14 

Drcddum, the breech .... 74 17 

Drone, the bagpipe 222 23 

Droop-rumpl't, tliat droops at the 

crupper 53 19 

Drouk, /() moisten 268 12 



1=1- 



6i4 



GLOSSARY. 



Droukit, luet, drenched .... 201 22 

Drouth, thirst 10 9 

Drouthy, thirsty 91 2 

Druken, drunken 8 27 

Drumly, muddy 4 37 

Drummock, meal and water mixed 

raw 71 zo 

V>x\.\x\x, pet, sour humour ... 45 3 

Dry, tSiirsty 5° 26 

Dubs, small ponds 73 4^ 

Duds, garments 32 26 

Duddie, ragged i 20 

Duddies, garments 48 10 

Dung, knocked ...... 10 40 

Dunled, beat^ thjtviped .... 120 21 

ViwaX'i, blows, knocks 180 12 

V>\xxV,adirk "37 

T>\\%hx, pushed by a ram or ox . 38 9 

Dwalling, dwelling 104 6 

Dwalt, dwelt 207 17 

Dyvors, bankrupts, disreputable 

fellows 151 5 

E.\RNS, eagles 83 18 

Eastlin, eastern 141 24 

Ee, eye 25 24 

to ivatch 141 5 

Een, eyes 141 33 

E'e brie, the eyebrow 262 26 

E'en, evening 31 6 

E'enins, eve7iings 77 24 

'E.er'xe, scared, dreading spirits . 179 18 

Eild, age 26 21 

Eke, also 108 34 

Elbucks, elbows 29 31 

E\drhch,/right/ul 16 33 

Eleckit, elected 126 35 

Eller, an elder 248 25 

En', end 261 22 

Exx'oxw^, Edi7iburgh 78 4° 

Em'brugh, Edi^iburgh .... 137 24 

Enow, enough 5 24 

Ensuin, ensuing 54 4' 

Erse, Gaelic 32 i3 

Especial, especially 29 13 

'Ex\ie.x-^\.3X\&, adder-stone .... 263 2 

Ettle, design 95 '5 

Expeckit, expected 126 31 

E.vpec', expect 265 35 

Eydent, diligent 62 30 

FA', lot 32 22 

¥3.,fall 57 23 

¥ace\, faced 54 8 

VaAdiom't., fathomed 47 '2 

Fac, foe 42 33 

Faem, _/('«;« 6 28 

Faikit, bated ic^j 29 

7a.\.\\as,failittgs 141 4 

Fair-fa', a benediction .... 72 i 

Y?in'm, a present, a reward . . 23 36 

Fairly, entirely, completely . ■ 211 32 

taWow, a fellow 37 3 

Fa'n, have fallen 96 2 

Yxcv, found 164 31 

Yz-aA,fou7id 79 19 



Page, line col. 

Varh, cakes of oat-bread ... 15 26 

Fash, trouble myself 34 29 

Fash your thumb, trouble yourself 

in ihe least 10 14 

Fash't, troubled 35 2 

Fashous, troubleso7ne 142 2 2 

Fasten-een, Fasten's-even ... 75 33 2 

Fatt'rels, ribbon-e^ids 74 29 

Faught, a fight 190 12 

Fauld, a fold 100 5 

¥a\i\ii\ng,foldi7ig 96 52 

Faulding slap, the gate of the fold 226 11 

Yawn, fallen 205 4 2 

Vanse, false 129 15 

Faut, /««/;• 164 31 2 

Faute,/rt«/r 201 30 

Fautor, a transgressor .... 252 12 

Faw.sont, seemly 4 ^4 

Fearfu", /('«//«/ 47 22 

Feat, spruce 44 12 

Fecht, to fight 4 34 

Y echim, fighting 32 10 

Yeck, the greater poriiofi ... 14 34 

Feckly, 7nostly 104 29 

Fecket, an U7tder waistcoat with 

sleeves 120 13 2 

Feck\esii, p07verless, 7vithout pith 72 8 2 

Feg, a /ig 57 38 

¥e\de,feud 43 1° 

Feirie, clever 249 11 2 

Fell, the flesh immediately under 

the skin 30 52 

keen, biti7ig 55 i 

7iippy, tasty 63 30 

Fen, a successful struggle, a shift 201 2 2 

YenA, to keep off '5 37 

to live comfortably 33 8 

Ferlie, to wonder 3 4° 

a term of conte7npt .... 74 10 

Yit\.ch\, piilled i7ttcrt7iitte7itly . 53 25 2 

Fey, predesti/ted 230 23 2 

Fidge, to fidget 10 21 

Fidgin-fain,^^.ir''''^"'.g''"'''^'''^'^;?'^''- 

7iess 76 13 

Fiel, soft, s7/iooth 203 20 2 

Fient, a petty oath. The fient a, 

the devil a bit of i 16 

Fier, healthy, sound 57 3& 

brother, friend 108 27 

Y'lCK, friend, comrade .... 227 i 

Fillie, a filly 104 10 

Y'm',find 142 2 2 

Y\i,s,\>t, to fidget 77 13 2 

Yi\.,foot 45 62 

Fittie-lan, the near horse of the 

hindmost pair in the plough 53 25 2 
Fizz, to 7nakc *• hissi/tg 7ioise like 

fer7ncntatio7i 7 39 

Y\aSax\, flapping, flutteri7ig . . 151 12 2 

Flae, a flea 165 22 2 

Flang, did fling or caper ■ . . 94 35 

Flannenj^a««f/ 74 19 .1 

Ylarin, flaring 204 9 

Flatt'rin,7?a«(^r/«^ 72 28 ^ 

Fleech'd, supplicated 180 5 • 

Fleechin, supplicating .... 72 26 



s> 



GLOSSARY. 



Page line col. 

Fleesh, a fleece 33 31 2 

Fleg, a kick, a random stroke . 78 i 

a sudden motion 144 33 

Fleth'rin, y?rt^/^r/«^ -j^ z(> 

¥\ev/h, a sharp blow i65 16 2 

Fley'd, scared 20 38 

YWchlcr'm , fluttering- .... 62 4 

Flit, a fly 52 21 

Flinders, shreds 71 40 

Flinging, capering 94 15 

Flin gin-tree, a flail 38 7 

YXhkh, fretted 53 31 2 

Flit, remove 54 15 2 

Flittering,^7(i'/^r/'«^ 226 18 

Flyte, to scold 262 82 

Fodgel, squat or plump .... 95 34 

Foor, to fare , . 267 25 

Foord, a ford 31 33 2 

'Foor^Aciy, late in the afternoon . 159 i 2 

Forbears, forefathers 33 15 

Forbye, besides 22 25 

Forfairn, worn-out , jaded ... 26 21 

Forfoughten,_/i2/;^«C(z' .... 125 5 
Forgather, to make acquaintance 

with 33 72 

Forgather'd, met i 6 

Forgie,_/or^/V<? 72 34 2 

Vor]f^!ikel, jaded with fatigue , . 77 24 

Forril, forward 114 5 2 

For't,yi'r it 23 28 

Father, fodder . 104 37 

Foil, full 17 40 

tipsy 20 2 

a bushel 54 10 2 

Foughten, troubled 4 45 

Fouth, an abutidance .... 96 7 

Fr2.e., from 2 23 

Frammit, estranged 249 34 

Freath, to froth 7 39 

Fremit, strange, foreign . . . 164 4 

Frien', friend 58 44 

Fright, a person or thing of an 

extraordinary aspect . . . 122 11 

Fu',full 29 II 2 

FiiA, the scut of the hare ... 42 31 2 

FufTt, did blow 46 5 

Fiimblin', awkward 89 

FiirAer, furtherance 125 37 

Furmi, wooden forms or seats . 18 33 

FumiciiUiv, fornicator ..... 166 i 2 
Furr-ahin, the hindmost horse on 

the right hand of the plough . 104 20 

Fiirrs, furro2us 14 7 

Fushionless,//M/f^.s 249 16 

Fy , ati exclamatiofi of haste . . 141 15 

Fyke, to be in a fuss about trifles 71 33 

Fyle, to soil or dirty 207 24 2 

Fyl'd, dirtied 16 3 

GAB, to speak fluently .... 11 2 

the motith 30 2 

Gabs, tongues 44 72 

Gae, go 711 

gave 47 8 

Gaed, walked 14 16 

went 15 14 



Puge line col. 

Gsien,gone 21 35 

Gaels, manners 33 " 

Gairs, triangular pieces of cloth 
inserted at the bottom of a 

shift or robe 246 g 2 

Gaxie, gone 19 21 

Gang, to go i 12 

Gangrel, vagrant 48 8 

Gapin,^rt//«^ 141 13 

Gar, to make 11 8 

Gar't, made 53 22 2 

Garten, garter 44 62 

Gash, sagacious i 29 

Gashin, cotiversing 45 21 2 

GaX, got 31 32 

Gate, manner 4 43 

way or road 4 4§ 

Gaily, gouty 126 15 2 

Gaucie, comfortable looking . . 18 37 

GawA., the plough shaft .... 233 3 
Ga\\Asviian,a ploughboy , the boy who 

drives the horses in the plough 104 36 

Gaun, going 4 23 

GaunleA, yawned no 28 

Gawcie, jolly, large i 35 

GaviVies, foolish persons . . . 122 19 

GayVies, pretty well 151 24 

Gear, wealth , goods 4 46 

y^eeX-haixi'A. %ear, we II saved . 27 41 

drink 151 33 

Geek, to toss the head in wanton- 
ness or scorn 37 10 

GeAs,pike 42 26 2 

GerA\es, great folks 7 20 

Genty, slender 211 31 

Geordie, George. The yellow let- 

ter'd Geordie, a guinea . . 2 22 

Gel, offspring 33 27 2 

Ghaists, ghosts 20 6 

Gie, give 9 19 

Gied, gave 32 23 

G'len, give 71 7117 

Gien, given 14 34 

G\es,giveus 21 8 

Gif, // 45 5 

Giflie, dim. oi gift 74 30 2 

G'l's^els, playful children . . . loi 23 

Gillie, dim. oi gill 71 41 2 

Gilpey, a young girl 46 21 

Gimmer, a eive from one to two 

years old 23 17 

Gin,// 15 7 

Gipsie, gipsy loi 7 

Girdle, a circular plate of iron 

for toasting cakes on the fire 48 14 

Girn, to grin 33 35 2 

Girrs, hoops 264 2 2 

Gizz, a wig 32 26 

Glaikit, thoughtless 41 30 

Glaizie, glittering 53 9 

Glamor, ^/a;«(7?(r 95 82 

GXaiim A, grasped 230 30 

Gled, a kite 216 19 

Gleed, a live coal 252 19 2 

Gleg, sharp 43 25 2 

cleverly, siviftly 96 12 




^ 





6i6 



GLOSSARY 



±± 



^ 



Page I 

Gleib, a glebe 203 

Glib-gabbel, that speaks smoothly 

and readily 11 

Glinted, glaneed 69 

GXwiivCi, glancing 14 

Gloamin, t-wilight 6 

Gloamin-shot, a twilight intervieiv 255 

Glowran, stariiig 52 

Glowr'd, looked earnestly, stared 14 

Glunch, a frown 8 

Goavan, looking roji7id with a 
strange, inquiritiggaze, star- 
ing stupidly Ill 

Gotten, got 79 

Gowan, the daisy 191 

Gawany, daisied 114 

Gowd, gold 81 

GoviAcn, golden 114 

GowiT A,k>iocked hit her a}td thither 222 

GowV, a foolish person .... 26 

Gowling, hoioling 73 

Graff, a gra7'e 167 

Grained, grinned 22 

Graip, a pronged instrumentfor 

cleaning stables 46 

Graith, harness, field i7npleme7its 7 

accoutrements 15 

Granes, groans 5 

Grape, to grope 44 

GrapeA, groped 171 

Grapit, groped 45 

Grat, wept 180 

GxMeiu , grateful 72 

Graunie, grandmother .... 31 

Gree,a/r/2^ 79 

to agree 132 

Gree't, agreed 21 

Greet, to weep 11 

Greetin, weeping 10 

Griens, covets, longs for . . . 271 

Grievin, ^r/f^z//;;^ 43 

Grippet, gripped, caught hold of . 45 

Gni.'^e., gristle 77 

Gx'w., great 131 

Grozet, a gooseberry 74 

Grumphie, the sotv 46 

Grun' , the ground 131 

Grunstane, a.grindstone ... 73 

Gruntle, the cotmtenance ... 8 

a grunting noise 46 

Grunzie, the mouth 207 

Gxw^xe., thick, of thriving growth 3 

Grusome, ill favoured .... 170 

Grutten, ^uept . 137 

Gude, the Supreme Beifig . . 33 

good 50 

GuAeen, good even 164 

Gudeman, goodman 20 

Gudes, goods, merchandise . . 271 

GuiA,good 4 

Guid-e'en, ^(30(/ ^z/^« 20 

GwiA-momm, good morning . . 36 

Gn\A{aX.'hcr,father-in-la'u> ... 53 

Guidwife, the mistress of the house 125 

the landlady 201 

Gully, a large knife 20 



Page line col. 

Gulravage, riot 128 3 

Gumlie, muddy, discoloured . . 26 38 

Gumption, understanding . . . 141 12 2 

Gusty, tasteful 7 36 

Gutcher, grandfather .... 254 25 2 

HA', hall 95 72 

Ha' Bible, hall-Bible 63 38 

Ha' folk, servants 2 26 

Haddin, holding, inheritance . 270 11 2 

Hae, have 4 10 

here (in the sense oi take) . . 151 41 2 
Haet, the least thing. Deil haet, 

an oath of negation .... 5 34 

Damn'd haet, nothing .... 21 34 

Ha'f, the half 165 31 

Haff, the half 140 22 2 

Haffets, the temples ..... 63 40 

Haffet locks, locks at the temples 257 18 

Hafflins, partly ...... 62 44 

Hafflins-wise, almost half ... 17 26 
Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses and 

Jnoors 43 7 

Haggis, a kind of pudding boiled 

in the stomach of a cow or 

sheep 72 24 2 

Hain, to spare, to save .... 79 9 

Hain'd, spared 54 16 2 

Hairst, harvest 46 19 

'Ra.nh, a petty oath 4 21 

Haivers, idle talk 125 14 

Hal', hall 57 14 2 

Hald, a?i abiding-place .... 54 28 2 
Hale, whole, entire; Hale breeks, 

breeches without holes . . 9 20 

uninjured 95 17 

Haly, holy 93 36 

Hallan, a particular partition 

•wall in a cottage 63 29 

Hallions, clowns, common fellows 151 12 

Hallowmas, the -iist of October . 165 8 

Hame, home 23 23 

Hamely, homely 53 29 

Han', hand 9 15 

Han' afore, the foremost horse on 

the left hatid in the plough . 104 8 
Han' ahin, the hindmost horse on 

the left hand in the plough . 104 10 

Hand-breed, a hand-breadth . . 207 13 ? 
Hand-waled, carefully choseti by 

hand I48 29 2 

Handless, without hands, useless, 

awkward 164 35 2 

Hangit, liangcd 251 6 2 

Hansel, hansel throne, a throne 

newly inherited 234 27 

a gift for a particular season, 

or the first money on any 

particular occasion . . . 236 28 

Han't, handed 204 39 

Hap, to 'wrap 71 32 

Winter hap, winter clothing . 24 25 

Hap, hop 150 28 

Ylalpence, half-pence 15 29 

Happer, a hopper 41 25 

Happing, hopping 55 19 





GLOSSARY. 



m 



617 



Page line col. 
Hap-step-an'-lowp, kop, step and 

jump, with a light airy step 14 23 

Harkit, hearkened 38 25 

Harn.jyarw 94 27 

Har'sts, harvests loi 2 2 

Hash, a soft, uselessfelloiu ... 8 27 

'Ha.sh'A, did smite, did disfigure 230 t 2 
Haslock, descriptive o/ihejitiest 
wool, being the lock that grows 

on the hals, or throat . . . 256 9 2 

Has't, has it 22 22 

Hastit, hasted 54 n 

Hand, to hold 915 

would keep 96 9 

Hauds, holds 223 25 

Hauf, the half 161 72 

Yiau^s, low-lying lands, >ncado7VS 6 29 
Hauns, hands as applied to work- 
men, persons 103 29 

Haurl, to drag 83 19 

Haurls, drags 46 82 

Wa.W!X\\\, peeling, dragging off . 47 19 

Hauver, oatmeal 262 17 

Havins, good manners . . . 33 22 

Hav'rel, half-witted 44 14 2 

Hawkie, a co^v, properly one with 

a white face 31 23 2 

Healsome, wholesome .... 63 27 

Heapet, heaped 41 25 

Heapit, heaped 54 11 2 

Hearin', hearing . . ... 149 14 

Hearse, hoarse , 9 31 

Hear't, //^ar /;" 76 13 

Heartie, dim. of //fa?"/ .... 50 34 2 

Hech, an exclamation of ivonder 4 43 

\i(:c\i^, foretold ....... 47 n 

offered 182 21 

Vlechl'in, making to pant . . . 177 4 2 
Heckle, a hoard, in which are 
fixed a niimber of sharp pins, 
used in dressing hemp, fax, 

^'c loi 25 

Hee balou, a term used by nurses 

wheti hilling children . . 255 i 2 

Y{e:e\s-o'er-govid.y, head over heel" 121 13 2 

Heeze, to elevate, to hoist ... 65 24 

Yich,haft 93 46 

Hein shinn'd, in-shinned . . . 207 12 2 

Hellim, the helm 221 2 2 

Hen-broo, hen-broth 276 2 2 

Herriet, harried 151 2 2 

Herrin, herring 23 34 

Herryment, plundering, devasta- 
tion 27 39 

Hersel, herself 23 21 

Het, hot. Gie him't het, give him 

it hot 12 9 

a^ugh, a coal pit 31 15 

a steep 263 11 2 

Heuk, a reaping-hook .... 248 16 

Hich, high 254 26 2 

Hidin', hiding 71 21 2 

Hie, high 200 30 2 

Hilch, to hobble 58 41 2 

Hilchin, halting 46 27 2 

Hill-tap, hill-toi> a44 i 



Hiltie skiltie, helter skelter . . 

Himsel. himself 

Hiney, honey 

Hing, to hang 

Hingin', hanging 

Hinging, hanging 

Hirples, walks luith difficulty. . 

Hirplin, limping 

Hissels, hissel, so many cattle as 
one person can attend . . 

Histie, dry, barren 

Hitch, a loop or knot 

tiizzies, young women .... 

Hoast, a co7igh 

Hoble, to hobble 

Hoddin, the motion of a man on 
horseback 

Hoggie, a young sheep after it is 
smeared and before it is shorn 

Hog-score, a kind (f distance-line 
drawn ao-oss the rink . . 

Hog-shouther, a kind of horse- 
play by justlijig with the 
shoulder 

Hol't, holed, perforated .... 

Hoodie-craw, the hooded crow 

Hoodock, miserly 

j Hool, the outer skin or case . . 

Hoolie ! stop; 

Hoord, hoard 

Hoordet, hoarded 

Horn, a spoon made of horn . . 
a comb made of horn .... 

Hornie, Satan 

Host, a cough 

Hostin, coughing 

Y{ot<:.\\A,fidgetted 

Houghmagandie,_/(Jr«/c.-ai';£7« . . 

Houlets, owls 

Housie, dim. of /;OT/.f<? 

Hov'd, swelled 

Hovvdie, a mid%vife 

Howe, hollowly 

a hollow or dell 

Howe-backit, Sicnk in the back . 

Howes, hollows 

Howkit, digged 

dugup 

Howlet-faced,yart'rf like an owl . 

\\-oy%e., hoist 

Hoy't, urged 

Hoyte, to amble crazily . . . 

Hughoc, Hugh 

Hunder, a httndred 

Hunkers, hams 

Huntit, hunted 

Hiircheon, a hedgehog .... 

UincWm, an urchin 

Hurdies, hips 

Hurl, to fall down ruinously . . 
to ride 

Hushion, a ciishion 

Hyte, mad 

ICKKR, an ear of corn . . . . 
ler'oe, a great-grandchild . . 



Pagei 
103 



239 


2 


264 


9 


14 


7 


80 


32 


bg 


23 


32 


31 


3 


3 


9 


9 





^ 



^ 



GLOSSARY. 



Page line col. 

Ilk, each 38 5 

Ilka, every i 32 

lU-willie, ill-natured 71 38 2 

Indentin, indejitiiring .... 4 20 

Yngvne, genius, iHgenuity ... 76 16 

Ingle-cheek, the fireside ... 38 13 

Ingle-lowe, the household fire . 38 3 2 

In's, in his 25 46 

In't, in it 231 41 

Vie, I shall or -will 78 37 

Isna, is not 121 12 

Ither, other 2 i 

Itsel, itself 137 g 2 

JAD, a jade 29 40 

]:s.A<!,, jades 5 48 

J an war, January 236 27 

^■Av^, to dally , to trifle .... 62 31 

Jaukin, trifling, dallying ... 45 29 2 

]2Mnex , foolish talk 254 30 2 

Jauntie, dim. oi jaunt .... 108 11 

Jaups, splashes 26 38 

Jaw, to pour 221 5 2 

Jillet, «>/// 71 15 2 

Jimp, to jump 58 41 2 

slender 200 14 

Y\m.\!%, a kind of easy stays . . 246 11 2 

Jimpy, neatly 211 31 2 

Jink, to dodge 6 24 

Jinker, that turns quickly ... 53 32 

ymVers, gay, sprightly girls . . 149 8 

Jinkin, dodging 32 19 2 

Jirkinet, an ojitcr jacket or jerkin 

worn by women 246 11 2 

Jirt, a jerk 78 i 

Jo, STveetheart, a term expressing 

Jafl'cction and some degree of 

familiarity 164 4 2 

i^^yci' , jobbing i65 24. 

octelegs, clasp-knives .... 45 6 

Joes, lovers 114 4 

Johnny Ged's Hole, the grave- 
digger 22 31 

'^oVx'a, joking 75 35 2 

Jorum, the jug 208 21 1 

Jouk, to duck 35 33 2 

to make obeisance 270 21 

Jow, to swing and sound ... 19 11 

Jumpit, /«;«/(?(/ 43 9 

Jundie, tojustle 79 26 2 

KAES, daws 12 39 

Kail, broth 12 38 

Kail-blade, the leaf of the colewort . 22 9 

Kail-runt, the stem of the colewort 21 46 

Kam, farm produce paid as retit 2 16 

Kebars, rafters 49 i 

Kebbuck, a cheese 18 39 

Kebbuck-heel, the remaining por- 
tion of a cheese 19 7 

Keckle, to cackle, to laugh . . loi 23 

Keekin'-glass, a looking-glass . . 176 27 

Y^e:e\C\X, peeped 236 22 

Keeks, peeps 2 22 

Keepit, kept i 8 

Kelpies, water-spirits .... 25 38 



Ken, know 4 21 

Kend, ktiotuti 31 14 

Kenn'd, known 19 30 

Kennin, a little bit ..... 42 32 

Kent, knew 3 i 

Kep, to catch anything when 

falling 84 44 

Ket, a fleece 33 28 2 

Kiaugn anxiety 62 8 

Kickin', kicking 122 11 2 

Kilbagie, the 7iame of a certain 

kind of whisky 51 15 2 

Killie, Kilmarnock 43 22 J 

)s:\\x.,to tuck up II 42 

Kimmer, a ^/V/ 78 11 

Kin', kind 33 i 

King's-hood, a part of the entrails 

of aji ox 21 24 

Kintra, country 124 42 

Kintia cooser, a country stallion, iii 13 

Kirn, a churn 31 20 2 

Kirns, harvest-homes .... 3 42 

Kirsen, to christen 77 n 

Kissin', kissing 276 3 

Kist, a shop counter 78 14 

Kitchen, anything that eats ■with 

bread to serve for soup or 

gravy 163 11 

Kitchens, seasons, makes palatable 7 24 

Kittle, to tickle 17 44 

ticklish 27 45 

Kittlin, a kitten 47 20 

Kiutlin, c«(/a'//«^ 45 17 

Knaggie, like knags, or points of 

rock 53 3 

Knappin-hammers, hammers for 

breaking stones 76 12 2 

Knowe, a hillock 2 8 

Knurl, a churl 182 19 

Knurlin, a dwarf 114 15 

Kye, cows 612 

Kyle, a district of Ayrshire . . 71 37 

Kytes, bellies 72 21 

Kythe, discover 44 32 

LADDIE, a lad 49 8 

Lade, a load 90 22 

Laggen, the angle between the side 

and bottom of a wooden dish . 37 40 2 

Laigh, lozv ....'.... 29 1 1 

Laik, lack 199 27 

Lair, lore 17 39 

Lairing, wading and sinking in 

snow or mud 55 17 

Laith, loth 54 23 

Laithfu', bashful 63 4 

Lallan, lowland 32 13 2 

Lambie, dim. of /awiJ 14 20 

Lampit, limpet 10 30 

Lan', land, estate 2 32 

Lane, alone 42 24 

Lanely, lonely 31 26 

Lang, long i 28 

Langer, longer 16 38 

Lap, did leap i 3° 

Laughin, laughing 21 27 



^t^^- 





GLOSSARY. 



^ 



619 



Lave, the rest 41 25 

Lav'rocks, larks 14 8 

Lawin, shot, reckoiung, bill . . 201 33 

Lawlan', lowland 50 38 

Lazie, lazy 148 39 

Lea'e, leave 33 12 

Leal, triie 44 4 

\^&3.-x'\%,, a grassy ridge . . . . 179 15 

Lear, lore, learning 713 

Lee, the lea 84 i 

Lee-lang, live-long 38 8 

heesome, pleasant 204 5 

Leeze me, a phrase 0/ congratula- 
tory endearment, /am happy 

in thee, or proud 0/ thee . . 203 17 
Leister, a three-barbed instruvient 

for sticking yish 20 23 

Len', lend 201 34 

Leugh, laughed 29 36 

Leuk, look, appearance .... 18 5 

Ley crap, lea crop 277 29 

Libbet, gelded no 6 

Licket, beaiitig 103 27 

Lickit, licked ivith desire . . . 164 40 
Licks, a beating. Gat his licks, 

got a beating 80 3 

Liein, telling lies 127 30 

Lien, lai7i 164 i 

Lift, heaven 55 4 

a large quantity 78 26 

Lightly, to undervalue, to slight . 185 38 

Liken, to compare 28 3 

Lilt, sing 29 26 

Limbics, dim. of //■;« 3^ .... 108 35 

Limmer, a kept mistress ... 5 8 

a strumpet 78 g 

Limpit, limped • 43 7 

Lin, a waterfall 83 27 

l^inkel, tripped deftly 94 6 

I inkin, tripping 32 17 

Linn, a waterfall 47 28 

Lint,7?«.r. Sin lint was i' the bell, 

since flax was inflower . . 63 34 

Linties, linnets 147 34 

Lippened, trusted io8 19 

Lippie, dim. of lip 206 25 

Loan, milking place 5 12 

lane 194 25 

Lo'ed, loved 92 i 

Lon'on, Londo7i 3 4° 

l^oo(, palm of the hatid . .... 38 32 

Locsome, lovesomc 133 10 

Loot, did let 47 16 

Looves, palms 73 36 

Losh, a petty oath 165 25 

Lough, a lake 31 4 

Louns, ragamnffins 80 25 

Loup, to leap 150 8 

Lovin', loving 141 3 

Low, flame 268 10 

T-iOv/nn, flaming 52 37 

Lowin, blazing . 18 20 

Lowpin leaping 180 11 

Lowping, leaping 94 15 

Lows'd, loosed 32 7 

Lowse, to loosen 52 i 



Page U 

Luckie, a designation applied to 

an elderly woman .... 254 

Lug, the ear 28 

to produce, to bring out ... 99 
Lugget, eared. Lugget caup, 

eared cup 7 

Luggies, small wooden dishes with 

handles 47 

Luke, look 104 

Lum, the chimney 45 

Lunardie, a bonnet called after 

Lunardi the aeronaut . . 74 

hunt, a column of smoke ... 46 

Luntin, smoking 4 

Luve, love 202 

Luvers, lovers 204 

Lyart, grey 14 

Lynin, lining 256 

MAE, more 22 

Mair, jnore 23 

Maist, almost 2 

that nearly 32 

Maistly, mostly 3 

Mak, make 3 

Makin, jnaking 18 

M3.i\\e, Molly 32 

MaiMm, farms 141 

Mang, among 16 

"^Wm^, a parsonage house . . . . 17 

Manteels, macules 14 

Mark, marks 53 

Mar's year, 1715, the year of 

Mar's rebellion 47 

Mashlum, jiiijced corn .... 12 

Maskin-pat, a tea-pot 221 

Maukin, a hare 38 

Maun, must 2 

Maunna, must not 179 

Maut, malt 200 

Mavis, the thrush ...... 85 

Mawin, mowing 20 

Mawn, a basket 264 

mown 204 

Mayhe, perhaps 4 

Meere, a mare 53 

Meikle, as much 52 

Melder, corn or grain of any kind 

sent to the mill to be ground 91 

Mell, to meddle 8 

y\.Ay'\e., to soil %uith mud ... 19 

Men', }nend 32 

Mense, good manners 26 

Mess John, the clergyman . . . 164 

M^e?,im, a dog of mixed breeds . i 

Midden, the dunghill .... 137 

'^WdA.iiw-cr^^Xi,, dunghill baskets . 207 

Midden-hole, the dunghill ... 47 

Midge, a gnat 272 

l\Iim, prim 17 

'^Vvm.-xviOM^ A, prim-mouthed . . 157 

Min, remembrance 226 

Min', mind 45 

Minds me, remembers me . . . 206 

Mind't-na, cared tiot 49 

Minnie, mother 53 



% 





620 



GLOSSARY. 



Page li 

Mirk, dari i8i 

Misca'd, abused 29 

Misguidin', misguidhig .... 71 
Mishanter, misfortune , disaster, 

calamity 140 

Miska't, abused 128 

Mislear'd, mischievous .... 21 

Mist, i?tissed . 47 

Misteuk, mistook 50 

}i\\lher,>Kother 13 

Mixtie-maxtie, confusedly mixed. 12 

Miqzl'd, having- different colours 137 

Moistify, to make 7noist .... 13 

Mony, many 3 

Mools, the earth of graves . . . loi 

Moop, to nibble 33 

to keep cojnpajiy 7uith .... 247 

Moorlan', moorland 79 

Moss, a morass 32 

Mou, mouth 45 

Moudieworts, moles 2 

Mousie, dim. of tnouse .... 54 

Movin', moving 170 

y\.-acV\e., great, big 10 

much 27 

Musie, dim. of >««jt' 78 

Muslin-kail, broth composed simply 
of water, shelled barley, and 

greens 35 

'^XwlohVva, all English, pitit, . . 10 

Mysel, myself 23 

NA', not . 5 

no 42 

Nae, no i 

Naeljody, nobody 79 

Naething, nothing 20 

Naig, a nag 72 

Naigies, dim. of wa^fj 184 

Nane, none i 

Nappy, ale 3 

Natch, grip, hold. To natch, to 

lay hold ofviolejitly ... 165 

Near't, near it 76 

Neebors, neighbours 8 

Necdna, 7tecd not 22 

Negleckit, neglected 11 1 

Neist, next 180 

Neuk, jiook, cortier 18 

New-ca'd, newly driven ... 77 

Nick, to break, to sever suddenly 21 

'H'lcVa.n, cutting 125 

Nicket, cut off 96 

caught, cut off 120 

Nick-nackets, curiosities. ... 96 

Nicks, knocks, blows 80 

Auld crummie's nicks, marks on 

the horn of a cow . . . . 1 32 

Niest, tiext 5 

Nieve-fu', a fist-full 78 

'!>i'Kve^, fists 23 

Niffer, exchange 41 

Niger, a negro 29 

Nits, 7iuts 44 

Nocht, nothing 90 

Norland, Northland n 



Notet, noted . . 104 

Nowte, cattle 4 

O\,of I 

O'erlay, anouiside dress, anoverall 268 
O'erword, any term frequently re- 
peated, a refrain . . . . 153 

Ony, any 6 

Orra, supernutnerary .... 48 

O't, of it 3 

O'ts, of it is 165 

Ought, aught, anything .... 232 

Oughtlins, anything ill the least . iii 

Ourie, shivering 55 

Oursel, ourselves 19 

Out-cast, a quarrel 126 

Outler, un-housed 47 

Owre, over i 

too 4 

Owrehip, a way of fetching a blow 
with the iiatnmer over the 

arm 8 

Owsen, oxen 179 

PACK-, pack an' thick, on friendly 

or intimate terms .... 2 

Packs, twelve stones 32 

Paidle, to paddle 104 

Paidles, wanders about tvithout 

object or motive 249 

V^\A\\, paddled 226 

Vamch, paunch, stomach ... 2 

VaXtricVf, partridges 42 

Pangs, crams 17 

Va.n&hen, the parish 256 

Parrilch, oatmeal boiled in water, 

stirabout 7 

Parritch-pats, porridge-pots . . 96 

Pat,/«/ 20 

a pot 45 

Pattle, a plough-staff 54 

Paughty, haughty 37 

Paukie, cunning, sly 34 

Pay't, paid 53 

Pechan, the stomach 2 

Pechin,/a«^/'«^ 157 

Peel, a tower . . ,i . . . . 248 

Peelin,/<'c/z'«^ 30 

Penny wheep, small beer ... 17 

Petticoatie, dim. of petticoat . . 254 

Pettle, a plough-staff 104 

FhTaimn,ff altering 78 

Pickle, a small quantity ... 46 

V'll, Put 2 

V\x.?„puts 45 

V\acaA?,,public proclatnations . . 222 
Plack, an old Scotch coin, the 
third part of a Scotch penny, 
twelve of which make an 

English penny 8 

Pladie, dim. oi plaid 210 

'P\a\dien, plaidifig 248 

Plaister, i^(7//rt/.f/'(rr .... 36 

Platie, dim. oi plate 6 

Pleugh, //.;«»/^ 5 : 

Pliskie, a trick 11 




G LOSS A I? Y. 



621 



Page line col. 

Pliver, a plcmer 51 29 

Plumpit,//?</«/<vi' 47 13 

Poeks, ivallets 52 35 

Poind, to seize for sequestration . 3 16 

Vo\wiL\, poinded 151 2 2 

YooxXxCi\, poverty 3 22 

Posie, a bouquet 205 10 

Pou, to pull 44 16 

Pouchie, dim. oi pouch .... 103 9 2 

Pouk, topi uc A 21 28 

Poupit, i/te pulpit 137 31 

Pouse, a pus/i 165 18 2 

Poussie, a hare . 75 35 

Pon\, pulled 44 16 2 

Pouts, poults, chicks 81 23 2 

Pouxhcr'd, powdered 157 2 2 

Po\xt.\\(iry,po'zvdery 57 6 

Pow, the head, the skull ... 78 4 

Pownie, a pony, a small horse . 76 27 

Pov/ihcr, powder 13 14 

Praise be blest, an expression of 

thankfulness . .... 265 21 2 

P\?i.y\n, praying 73 22 2 

Pree, to taste 200 18 2 

Preen, a//« 80 i 

Prent,/r/«/ 34 22 

Px'Ae.i\\' , pridefui 45 52 

Prie'd, tasted 45 16 2 

Px\^{, proof ■ ■ ■ 34 5 

Priestie, dim. ot priest .... 157 22 

Priggin, haggling' 28 9 

Primsie, demure, precise ... 45 22 

Propone, to propose 41 26 

Proveses, provosts 27 20 

Pu', to pull 205 10 

P\i A, pulled 206 17 

PxidAm' , a pttddifig 72 2 

Puddock-stools, mushrooms . . 122 21 

Pund, pounds 54 17 

Pursie, dim. oK purse 5° 31 

Pyet, the magpie 141 29 2 

Pyke, to pick 51 14 

Pyles, grains 41 24 

QUAICK, quack 31 92 

Qiiat, quit 36 72 

quitted 96 4 

Quaukin, quaking 45 31 2 

Quey, a co7ufrom one year to two 

years old 47 82 

Quo', quoth 165 5 

RAD, afraid 164 8 

Rade, rode 239 19 

Ragweed, the plant rag^vort . . 31 14 2 

Raibles, rattles, nonsense ... 17 20 

Rair, to roar 84 24 

Wad rair't, would have roared. 53 35 2 

Rairin, roaring 18 11 

Raise, rose 222 27 

Raize, to madden, to injlame . . 53 n 

Ramblin, rambling 55 

Ram^eeryA, fatigued 77 3° 

Ramj^unshock, rugged .... 255 23 

Ram.- 'iX.z.m., forward 36 9 

Randie, quarrelsome .... 48 8 



Page line ct 
Randy, a term of opprobrium 

generally applied to a woman 255 38 

Ranklin', rankling 151 4 

Ranting, noisy, full of animal 

spirits I 24 

R^Ms, jollifications 7 26 

Rape, a rope 30 16 

Raploch, coarse 103 17 

Rash, a rush 72 8 

Rash-buss, a bush of rushes ..315 

Rattan, a rat 121 20 

Rattons, rats 38 17 

PsL-acXe, fearless 12 25 

Raught, reached 46 i 

Raw, a roiv 15 41 

Rax, to stretch 29 9 

P.a.-x.'A, stretched out, extended . iii 6 

Raxin, stretching 128 22 

Ream, creain 4 3 

PehwXe, a rebut, a discomfiture . 262 13 

Red, counsel 20 41 

Red-wud, stark mad 11 39 

Reekin, smoking 7 33 

Reekit, smoked 94 2 

smoky . 32 26 

Reeks, smokes 4 3 

Reestit, withered, singed ... 32 26 

stood restive 54 7 

Reflec', reflect 137 17 

Reif randies, sturdy beggars . . 208 16 

Remead, remedy 12 6 

Remuve, remove 205 33 

Respeckit, respected 126 33 

Restricked, restricted .... 70 26 

P.e^, to take pity 204 13 

Rickles, stocks of grain .... 126 2 

Rig, a ridge 54 16 

Riggin, rafters 38 18 

Rigwooddie, withered, sapless . 94 14 

Rin, run "45 

Rink, the course of the stones, a 

term in curlitig 42 19 

Rinnin, running 46 26 

P\'pp,ahandfulofunthrashedcorn 53 2 
Ripple, weakness in the back and 

reins 141 20 

Ripplin-kame, a flax-comb ... 255 33 

Ripps, handfuls 33 10 

Riskit, jnade a noise like the tear- 
ing of roots 53 35 

Rive, to burst 72 23 

Rives, tears to pieces .... 4 3^ 

Rives't, tears it 81 18 

Roastin', roastitig 141 24 

Rock, a distaff 203 18 

Rockin, a social gathering, the 
women spinning on the rock 

or distaff 75 33 

Roon, round 80 15 

PQO'i A, praised 233 6 

Roose, to praise 72 27 

Roosty, rusty 5' 27 

Roun', round 62 11 

Rovpet, hoarse as with a cold . 9 31 

Routhie, well filled, abunda'it . 204 24 

Rowes, rolls 26 31 




622 



GLOSSAKY. 




Page line col. 

Rowin, rolling 227 35 

Row't, rolled ... .... 71 23 

'Rowjie, to lo7u, to bellow .... 29 12 

Rowth, abundance 921 

Rowtin, lowing 6 12 

Rozet, roszH . . 74 14 2 

Ruefu', rue/nl 171 92 

Rung, a cudgel 12 26 

Runki'd, wrinkled 15 7 

"RuTLls, the stetns of cabbage . . 29 16 

Ryke, reach 51 i 

SABS, sobs w ^i; 

S^e,so 3 21 

Saft, so/t 19 22 

Sair, sore 2 43 

to serve 132 32 

Sairly, sorely 211 34 

Sair't, served 81 35 

Sang, song i 27 

Sannock, Alexander 142 11 

Sark, a shirt 11 3 

Sarkit, proi.'ided in shirts ... 38 29 

Ssiuce, scorn, ittsolence .... in 23 2 

Saugh, the ■willow '53 24 2 

Saiigh woodies, ropes made of 

willow withes 108 5 2 

Saul, soul 4 20 

Saunt, saints 7 27 

Saut, salt 33 24 

Saut backets, irt/j' <^«(-^i7/i ... 96 11 

Sautet, salted 37 36 2 

Saw, to so%v 46 39 

Sawin, sowing 20 32 

Sawmont, a salmon 42 23 2 

Sax, six 21 17 

Saxpence, sixpence 142 12 

Say't, say it 236 7 

Scaith, iLurt 239 29 

Scaur, to scare 21 20 

ScSiUr, frightened 31 18 

Scaud, to scald 31 6 

Scawl, a scold 32 72 

Scho, she 236 14 2 

Sc\\oo\m\ schooling, teaching . . 170 27 

Scones, barley cakes 7 2 

Sconner, to loathe 35 18 2 

loathing 72 42 

Scraichin, screaming .... 75 34 

Scrapin', scraping 132 29 

Screed, a tear, a rent .... 14 36 

to repeat glibly 104 52 

Scriechin, screeching 9 35 

Scrieyin, gliding easily .... 7 n 

Scrimpit, scanty 34 14 

Scrimply, scantly 38 26 2 

Scroggie, covered with stunted 

shrubs 269 32 

Sculdudd'ry, a ludicrous term de- 

notingfornicaiion .... 271 34 

See't, see it 45 36 

Seizin, seizing 10 28 

Sel, self 76 35 

Sell't, sold 54 15 

Sen', se7id 142 17 

Sen't, send it 81 29 



Page line c 

Servan', servant 35 37 

Set, lot 16 7 

Sets, becomes 8 34 

sets oj?', starts 23 15 

Settlin, gat a fearfu' settltn, was 

frightened into quietness . . 47 22 

Shachl't, deformed 195 3 

Shaird, a shred 80 33 

Sha'na, shall not 239 34 

Shangan, a cleft stick .... 29 18 

S\ia.nk, the leg and foot .... 53 15 

Shanks, legs 267 27 

Shanna, shall 7Wt 151 20 

Sharin't, sharing it 240 20 

Shaul, shallow 127 32 

Shaver, a wag 37 4 

Shavie, a trick 51 29 

Shaw, show 34 6 

Shaw'd, showed 93 32 

Shaws, wooded dells 47 21 

Sheep-shank, wha thinks himsel 
nae sheep-shank bane, who 
thinks himself 710 7i7iimpor- 

tant perso7iage 78 21 

Sheers, shears 33 16 

scissors 62 25 

Sherra-moor, Sheriff-muir . . 46 19 

Sheugh, a trench i 30 

Sheuk, shook 49 i 

Shiel, a shieling, a hut .... 204 3 

Shill, shrill 223 5 

ShiUin's, shillings 255 22 

Shog. a shock 32 25 

Shools, shoz'els 76 r i 

Shoon, shoes 34 9 

Shor'd, threatened 28 11 

offered 51 35 

Shore, to threateti 132 21 

Shouldna, .s'/r6'?</(;' «()/ 177 n 

Shouther, shoulder 13 13 

5hure., did shear, did cut grai7i . 248 14 

Sic, such 3 4 

Sicker, secure 20 16 

Siclike, suchlike ...'... 2 38 

SideHns, sidelong 78 39 

Sighin', sighi/ig 128 20 

Siller, tnoney ■ ■ ■ 91 24 

of the colour of silver . . . . 205 23 

Simmer, summer 14 i 

Simmers, su?n>ners 518 

S'm\si7ice 21 i8 

Sindry, sundry 274 2 

Sinfu', si7iful 72 32 

Singet, si7iged 100 i 

Singin', si7igi7tg no 6 

Sing't, sing it 57 25 

Sinn, the sun 126 20 

Sinny, stintiy 204 30 

Sinsyne, since 183 27 

Skaith, injury 20 41 

Skaithing, i/!juri7ig 81 19 

Skeigh, high-mettled .... 53 7 

shy, proud, disdainful . . . i8b 2 

Skellum, a worthless fellaiv . . 91 19 

Skelp, a slap 72 30 

to run 157 15 



]f 



GLOSSARY. 



Page li 
Skelpie-limmer, a technical term 

hi female scolding .... 46 

Skelpin, -walking smartly ... 14 

resounding 48 

Skelping, slapping loi 

Skelpit, hurried 92 

SkinVWn, glittering 114 

Skirl, to shriek 29 

Skirl'd, shrieked 45 

Skirlin, shrieking 8 

Sklent, to de7<iate from truth . . 78 

Sklented, slanted 32 

Sklentin, slanting 31 

Skouth, range, scope 129 

Skreech, to scream 95 

Skrieigh, to scream 53 

Skyrin, anything that strongly 

takes the eye, sho7uy, gaudy . 230 

Skyte, a sharp oblique stroke . 48 

Slade, slid 23 

Slae, the sloe 85 

'bX-i.'f'i, flashes 3 

gates, styles, breaches in hedges 19 

Slaw, slow 221 

Slee, shy 53 

Sleeest, slyest 34 

Sleekit, sleek 54 

Slidd'ry, slippery 225 

Sloken, /() quench, to allay thit st 11 1 

Slypet, slipped, fell over ... 53 

Sma', small 19 

'Ssme.Ad.wm, dust, powder ... 74 

Smeek, smoke 38 

Smiddy, a smithy i 

Smoor'd, smothered 24 

Smoutie, smutty 32 

Smytrie, a number huddled to- 
gether 2 

Snap, i'Wrtr/ 114 

Snapper, to stumble 190 

Snash, abuse, impertinence . . 3 

Snaw broo, melted snoiu ... 26 

Snawie, snoivy 69 

Snawy, snoivy 31 

Sned, to lop, to cut 108 

Snell, bitter, biting 54 

Snellest, sharpest, keenest ... 191 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box ... 4 

^nxcV, the latchet of a door . . 32 

Snirtle, to laugh slyly .... 51 

Snool, to cringe, to submit tamely 173 

to snub 203 

Snoov'd, sneaked i66 

Snoov't, went smoothly .... 54 

Snowkit, snuffed 2 

Sodger, a soldier 48 

Sodgerin', soldiering 271 

Soger, a soldier 237 

Sonsie,yo//_y, comely i 

Soom, to swim 10 

Soor, sour 127 

Sootie, sooty 31 

Sough, a heavy sigh 230 

Souk, a suck 268 

Soupe, a spoonful, a small quan- 
tity of anything liquid . . 63 



Souple, supple 72 

Souter, a shoemaker 91 41 

Sowps, spoonfuls 12 38 

Sowter, a shoemaker 173 9 

Sowth, to try over a tune with a 

low -whistle 57 23 

Sowther, to solder, to make up . 5 42 

Spae, to prophesy 46 13 

Spails, chips of wood 151 4 

S^3i\rgcs, dashes or scatters about 31 5 

Spairin, sparing 18 13 

Spak, spake '4 32 

Spate, a flood 26 33 

Spavie, a disease 51 33 

Spaviet, having the spavin . . 58 39 

Spean, to wean 94 14 

Speel, to climb 78 32 

Speel'd, climbed 35 2 

Spe'er, to inquire 244 6 

Spence, the country parlour . . 33 45 

S-pxei, to ask, to inquire .... 8 24 

Spier'd, inquired 195 i 

Spier't, inquired 76 14 

Spinnin, spiniiing 203 17 

Spleuchan, a tobacco-pouch ... 21 24 

Splore, a frolic 48 9 

'i^xv^cV\e.A, clambered . . . . iii 19 

'i-praXKX^, to struggle ..... 55 ^7 
Spring, a quick air in music, a 

Scottish reel 81 33 

^pr'iUy, full of spirits .... 53 35 

^pru<.h, spruce 265 39 

.Spunk, _/frf 3° 25 

mettle 51 24 

a spark 76 25 

Spun\iie, full of spirit .... 11 23 

whisky 151 29 

Spunkies, Wills o' the wisp . . 25 38 
Spurtle, a stick with which por- 
ridge, broth, is'c. are stirred 

while boiling 96 3 

Squattle, to sprawl 74 26 

?>qyLt^e\, to scream 31 12 

Stacher'd, staggered, walked un- 
steadily 20 3 

'a\.3.c\\e.x'\., staggered 150 12 

Stack, stuck 93 46 

Staggie, dim. oi stag 53 5 

Staig, a horse of one, two, or 
three years old, not yet broken 
for riding, nor employed in 

-ivork 266 13 

Stan', a stand 20 33 

Wad stan't, would have stood . 121 

Stanes, stones 2 37 

Stang, to sting 52 21 

Stank, a pool or pond 52 9 

Stap, to stop 20 39 

Stark, strong 53 24 

Starns, stars 83 16 

Starnies, dim. of starns .... 84 12 

Startin, starting 44 8 

Startles, runs hurriedly ... 4 35 

Starvin, starving 54 9 

Staukin, stalking 201 23 

Staumrel, half-witted .... 27 38 



m 



624 



GLOSSA/^V. 



Staw, io steal 39 

to i7irfeit 72 

S techin , c ra »t m itig, panting with 

repletion 2 

%le.^V, to close 13 

Steeks, stitches, reticulations . . 2 

Steer, to injure 5 

to stir up 18 

Steer'd, molested 131 

^\e.ftve., firm, compacted ... 53 

Stells, stills 9 

Sten, a leap or bound .... 201 
Hasty stens, hasty stretches or 

rushes 83 

Sten't, reared 54 

Stents, assessments, dues ... 2 

Steyest, steepest 54 

Stibble, stubble 54 

Stibble-rig, the reaper in hardiest 

•who takes the lead .... 46 

a stubble-ridge 164 

Stick-an-stowe, totally, altos^ether 80 

Stilt, halt '. . . 58 

Stimpart, an eighth part of a 

Winchester bushel .... 54 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year old 30 

Stockin, stock it^g 75 

Stockins, stockings .... 268 

Stockit, stocked 141 

Shocks, plants 0/ cabbage ... 33 

Stoited, walked stupidly . . . 140 

Stoitered, staggered 49 

Stoor, sounding hollowly or hoarsely 31 

Stoppit, stopped 170 

Slot, an ox 30 

Stoure, dust 29 

dust blown on the nvind . . . 199 

pressure of circumstances . . 237 

Stovvn, stolen 184 

Stownlins, by stealth 45 

Stowrie, dusty 268 

Stoyte, to stumble 190 

Strade, strode 251 

Strae, a fair slrae-death, a natural 

death 23 

Slr^ik, to stroke 12 

Straikit, stroked 81 

Strak, struck 23 

Strang, strong 83 

Strappan, strapping 62 

Strappin, strapping 182 

Straught, straight 32 

Streamies, dim. o( streams . . . 108 
Streekit, stretched. Streekit owre, 

stretched across 26 

Strewin, streiving 54 

Striddle, to straddle 78 

Stringin, stringing 38 

Stroan't,/«.f^;2^ i 

Studdie, a stithy 8 

Stumpie, dim. of stump, a short 

quill 77 

Strunt, spirituous liquor of any 

kind 47 

to walk sturdily 74 

Stuff, corn 46 




Page line c 

Sturt, to molest, to vex .... 5 25 

.Stiirtin.yr^'''''!^'''^ 46 7 

Styme, see a styme,.ytv in the least 161 6 

Sucker, su^ar 7 36 

Slid, should 7 38 

Siigh, rt rushing sou'td .... 25 29 

Sumphs, stupid fellows .... 125 13 

Sune, jf)(7« 124 41 

Siippin", supping 276 2 

Siithron, Southern, English . . 79 36 

Swaird, sward 32 17 

SwalI'd, siuelled 72 21 

Swank, stately 53 14 

Swankie?,, strappi7igyo?iugfello7VS 15 21 

Swap, an exchange 77 8 

Swarf, to siuoon 230 23 

Swat, did sweat 35 26 

.Swatch, sample 16 5 

specimen 23 25 

Swats, ale 91 40 

Swearin', swearing 149 13 

Sweatin, sweating 80 20 

Swinge, to lash 151 6 

Swingein, whipping 30 20 

Swirl, a C!ir7>e i 36 

Swith, .y7w7j; 29 II 

Swither, doubt 13 15 

Swoor, siuore 45 7 

Sybow, a leek 133 5 

Syne, since i 28 

then .... 18 39 

TACK, possession, lease ... no 4 
Tackets, a kind 0/ nails for drift- 
ing into the heels of shoes . 96 9 

Tae, toe 269 7 

Three-tae'd, three-toed. ... 20 23 

Taed, a toad 271 42 

Taen, taken 34 12 

Tairge, to task severely .... 104 2 

Tak, to take 4 29 

Tald, told 76 II 

Tane, the 07ie 137 27 

Tangs, tongs 121 14 

Tapmost, topmost 74 32 

Tapetless, heedless, foolish ... 77 30 

'Y2cpfi\K.\\cVi, a quart 7neasure . . 177 11 

Taps, tops 72 18 

Tapsalteerie, topsy-t7trvy . . . 223 14 

TarcQw,' , to I7iur77inr 151 24 

Tarrow't, 77i7ir}n7tred .... 37 38 

Tarry-breeks, a sailor .... 37 15 

Tasix^, a goblet 212 2 

Tauld, told 37 41 

Tawie, that allo%vs itself peaceably 

to be ka/idled 53 29 

Tavi\>\ss,foolisit, tho7ightless yo7i7ig 

persons 122 19 

Tawted, 7>tatted, unco/nbed . . i 20 

Teats, small qjiantities .... 33 10 

Te.e.n, provocation, chagrin . . 98 25 

Tell'd, told 166 3 

Tellin', telli7ig 132 30 

Temper pin, M(? wooden pi7t used 
for tempering or reg/datittg 

the tnotioft of a spinning-wheel 267 24 



J 



^ 



^ 



GLOSSARY. 



625 



Page line col. I 



Ten-hours' bite, it slight feed to 
the horses 7vhile iti yoke in 

the forenoon 77 27 

Tent, to take heed 20 3 

mark 20 40 

Tentie, heedful 45 28 

Tentier, more careful .... 120 10 

Teughly, toughly 25 43 

Teiik, took 4y 27 

Thack an rape, clothes .... 2 42 

Thae, thest 22 32 

'\\\2Xxm, fiddle St rings .... 28 25 

Thankfu, thankful 58 28 

Thankit, thanked 26 42 

Theekit, thatclicd, covered up, 

secured 126 10 

Thegither, together 22 

Themsels, themselves .... 5 2 

Thick, pack and ih'ick, friendly . 2 2 

Thieveless, cold, dry, spited . . 26 i 

Thigger, begging 151 11 

Thir, these 94 9 

their 247 10 

Thirl'd, thrilled 76 5 

Thole, to suffer, to endure . . 3 14 

Thou's, tho7t art 140 19 

Thowes, thwws 26 31 

Thowless, slack, lazy .... 77 37 

Thrang, busy i 5 

a croivd 15 23 

Thrapple, the throat 141 8 

Thrave, twenty four sheaves of 

corn, including two shocks . 54 33 

Thnvi, to sprain or twist ... 47 i 

to cross or contradict .... 221 36 

Thrawin, twisting 47 13 

Thrawn, twisted 42 18 

Thraws, throes 217 13 

Threap, to maintain by dint of 

assertion 80 26 

"VhrcfM, to thrash 165 28 

Threshing, thrashing .... 29 8 

Thretteen, thirteen 54 17 

Thretty, thirty 255 22 

Thrissle, the thistle 10 25 

Throwther, a' throwther, through- 
other, pell jnell 13 17 

Thuds, that jnakes a loud inter- 
mittent noise 39 8 

resounding blows 230 28 

Thummart, the weasel .... 127 7 

Thunipit thumped 43 8 

Thys,eV , thyself 130 20 

Tidins, tidings 100 36 

Till, unto 142 15 

T\\\\,toit II 41 

Timmer, timber 5 7 

the tree boughs 78 8 

Timmer propt, timber propt . . 47 13 

Tine, to lose 13 40 

to go astray 245 7 

Tint, lost 26 42 

Tint a^ win, lost as won .... 210 8 

Tinkler, a tinker i 18 

Tips, rams 33 27 

Tippence, twopence 15 31 



Tirl, to strip 

Tirl'd, kjiocked 

Tirlin, uttroofing 

Tither, the other 

Tittlin, whisperitig 

Tocher, marriage portion . . . 
Tocher-band, dowry bond . . . 

Todlin, tottering 

Tods, foxes 

Toom, empty 

Toop, a ram 

Toun, a hamlet, a farm-house . 
Tout, the blast of a horn or 

trumpet 

Touzxe, rough, shaggy .... 

Touzle, to rtimple 

To've, to have 

Tow, a rope 

Towmond, a twelvemonth . . . 
Towzling, rumpling, dishevelling 
j Toy, a very old fashion of female 

head-dress 

Toyte, to totter 

Transmugrify'd, metamorphosed . 

Trashtrie, trash 

Treadin', treading 

Trews, trousers 

Trickie, tricksy 

Trig, spruce, neat 

Trinkling, trickling 

Troggin, wares sold by wandering 

tnerchants 

Troke, to exchange, to deal with 

Trottin, trotting 

Trouse, troitsers 

Trow't, believed 

'^xo\\<C<i\, a petty oath 

Try't, have tried 

Tulzie, a gjcarrel 

Tunefu", tuneful 

Tup, a ram 

Twa, two 

Twa fauld, twofold, doubled up . 
Twa-three, two or three . . . 

Twal, twelve o'clock 

Twalpennie worth, tivelvepenny 

•worth 

Twalt, the twelfth 

Twang, tzvinge 

Twined, reft 

Twins, bereaves, takes a'wayfrom 

Twistle, a twist 

Tyke, a vagrant dog .... 

Tyne, to lose 

Tysday 'teen, Tuesday evening . 



Page line 


ISI 




168 




31 


22 




23 


15 


41 


.S3 


21 


227 




20 


14 


33 


6 


10 


26 


33 


19 


33 


35 


18 


10 


I 


33 


122 


31 


205 


s 


S3 


2b 


(33 


34 


SO 


16 


74 


19 


S4 


>4 


42 


3 


2 


27 


137 


29 


230 


5 



151 35 

53 26 

251 19 

255 19 

26 43 

53 21 



40 



[40 



8 27 
126 29 



[64 4 2 



UNCHANCY, dangerous . . . 151 31 

Unco, very 3 34 

great, extreme 30 31 

strange 47 26 

Uncos, strange things, tiews of 

the country side 62 22 

Unkend, unknown 79 15 

Unkenn'd, unkno^wn 79 

Unsicker, 7insecure 121 

Unskaith'd, ujihurt 43 




626 



GLOSSARY. 



Page i 

Upo', UpO>! 3 

Upon't, upon it 246 

VAP'RIN, vapouring .... 46 

\ 2iuntis, proud , in high spirits . 94 

Vera, very 5 

Vic«in,rv,T,r/„.- 80 

Viils, ,/,,.. r.;,:ui a column . . 25 

\\\w\,ri. til. il, grain .... 126 

Viulc, I'ictual 248 

Vo^ic, proud, well-pleased . . 269 
Vow, an interjection expressive 0/ 

admiration or surprise . . 269 

WA', a wall 38 

Wa' flower, the wallflomer . . 209 

Wab, a lueb 248 

Wabster, a iveaver 15 

Wad, luould i 

a ivager 23 

to wed 268 

Wad a haen, luojild have had . . 212 

Wadna, would not 45 

Wadset, a mortgage 271 

Wae, sorroTv/ul 3 

Wae days, ivoful days .... 253 

Waefu', ivoful 201 

Waes me, ivoe^ me 22 

Waesucks! alas! 19 

Wae worth, woe befall .... 8 
Waft, the cross thread that goes 
from the shuttle through the 

■web 77 

Waifs, stray sheep 126 

Wair't, spetid it 57 

Wal'd, chose 29 

Wale, choice. Pick and wale, of 

choicest quality 29 

Walie, ample, large 72 

Wallop in a tow, to hang one's self 268 

Waly, ample 236 

Wame, the belly 7 

Wamefou, bellyful 72 

Wan, did win 108 

earned 265 

Wanchancie, unlucky .... 33 

Wanrestfu', restless 33 

War'd, spent, bestowed .' . . . 141 

Ware, to spend 108 

worn 125 

Wark, luork •. . . 5 

Wark-lufhe, a tool to work with . 31 
Warks, works, in the sense of 

buildings, manufactures , Gt'c. 168 

Warld, ivorld 28 

Warlock, a wizard 34 

Warly, worldly 77 

Warran, ivarrant 11 

Warsle, to wrestle 137 

Warst, worst 5 

Warstl'd, ivrestled 25 

Wasna, was not 20 

Wast, west 99 

Wastrie, prodigality, riot ... 2 

Wat, wet 46 

wot, know 164 



Wat na, wot not ........ 165 6 

Waterbrose, brose made of meal 

and water simply .... 35 27 

Wattle, a wand 53 23 

i Wauble, to swing, to reel ... 53 5 

1 \^2xC^e.\-\\n%, awakening .... 211 8 

j Waukens, wakens 17 39 

! Waiikit, thickened with toil . . 38 22 

j Waukrife, wakeful 84 36 

Wauks, awakes 226 4 

I Waur, to fight, to defeat ... 21 22 

j worse 100 6 

1 Waur't, worsted 53 20 

[ Weans, childreji 2 40 

I Weanies, dim. of wf««,f .... 87 

Weason, the weasand .... 8 21 

Wee, little 2 29 

I A wee., a short period of time . 31 7 
I A wee a-back, a small space 

behind 14 16 

Weel, well 5 3° 

Weel-gaun, well-going .... 41 23 

V^ee\-V.em,well-kno7vn .... 177 9 

Weet, luet 8 21 

deiu 190 30 

rain 191 i 

We'se, we shall or will ... 77 6 

Westlin, ivestern 57 18 

Wha, who I 25 

Wha e'er, ivhoezier 174 20 

Whaizle, to zvheeze 53 22 

Whalpit, whelped i 11 

Wham, ivhojn 246 8 

Whan, itiheti . . 38 9 

Whang, a large slice 15 25 

to give the strappado .... 29 32 

Whar, where 262 17 

Whare, where 2 21 

Wha's, %vhose 16 12 

Whase, luhose 23 8 

'^\\A\.{orex\o'\ for what reason not? 166 7 

V^halt, did whet or cut .... 126 11 

Whaup, a curlew 169 6 

Whaur'U, where will .... i66 10 

Wheep,Jlying nimbly .... 29 25 

'^\i\Ad^vn, ru7tning as a liare . . 75 35 

Whigmeleeries, crochets ... 26 8 
Whingin, crying, complaining, 

fretting 85 7 

Whins, y>/r2t' bushes 47 23 

Whirlygigums, useless ortiaments 25 47 
Whisht, peace. Held my whisht, 

kept silence 38 7 

Whiskit, 7uhisked S3 32 

Whissle, whistle lo 26 

So gat the whissle o' my groat, 

to play a losing game . . 81 14 

Whistle, the throat 150 21 

Whitter, a hearty draught of liquor tj 12 

Wh\x\\-mine, whitistone, granite . 18 22 

Whup, a ivhip 48 12 

Whyles, sometimes 2 3 

Wi', with 118 

Wick, a term in curling, to strike 

a stone in ati oblique direction 42 18 

Widdiefu, ill-tempered . . . . i8a 19 



GLOSSARY. 



627 



Page line, c 

Widdle, a struggle or bustle . . 103 21 

Wiel, a small ivkirlpool ... 47 31 

Wifie, dim. of «'//? 62 6 

W\^\i\., strong, ^07uer/Hl . . . 104 9 

WiV cat, the uiild cat .... 127 7 

Willie-waught, a hearty draught. 2-ij 3 
Willow wicker, the smaller species 

o/ivilloiv 121 17 

Willyart, luild, strange, timid' . iii 34 

V/impVin, uiazn'ng, meafiderijig . 44 11 

Wimpl't, uiitnpled 47 20 

Win", ivind 236 27 

Winkin, winking 30 13 

Winna, will not 11 10 

Wiiinock - bunker, a seat in a 

window 93 25 

Winnocks, windows 12 17 

Wins, ivinds 4 2 

Win't, did "wind 45 28 

Wintle, a staggering motion . . 47 22 

Wintles, struggles X70 8 

Winze, an oath 47 16 

Wiss, wish 71 25 

Witha', withal 212 27 

Withoutten, without 42 30 

Wonner, a wonder, a contemp- 
tuous appellation .... 2 29 

Wons, dzuells 179 21 

Woo', luool 32 38 

Woodie, the gallows 5° 34 

a rope, more properly one made 

of withes or willows ... 83 18 
Wooer-babs, garters knotted be- 
low the knee in a couple of 

ioops 44 5 

Wordie, dim. of wo/-(/ 128 17 

Wordy, worthy 72 5 

Worl', world 4 ^o 



Page line col. 

Worset, worsted 46 8 

Wow, a>i exclamation of pleasure 

or wonder 95 37 

Wrang, -wrong 36 25 

mistaken 76 62 

Wranged, wronged 71 35 12 

Wreeths, wreaths 55 9 

Wud, mad 8 14 

Wumble, a wimble 7' 35 

Wyle, to beguile, to decoy . . . 185 44 

Wyliecoat, a flannel 2'est ... 74 21 2 

Wyling, beguiling 188 20 

Wyte, to blame, to reproach . . 8 20 

YARD, a garden 32 13 

Yaud, a worn-out horse . . . 272 36 
Yell, barren. As yell's the Bill, 
giz'ing no more milk than the 

bull 31 24 2 

Yerd, the churchyard .... 236 10 

S^xV&., jerked, lashed .... 34 21 

Yerl, afi earl 272 24 

Yi:'%e, you shall or will .... 104 21 2 

Yeatreen, yesternight .... 21 35 

Yetts, gates 151 ii 

Yeukin, itching in 5 

Yeuks, itches 121 9 2 

Yi\l, ale 18 30 

Yill-caup, alestoup 17 29 

Yird, earth 45 i 

Yirth, the earth 137 9 2 

Yok'm, yoking, a bout, a set to . 75 57 2 

Yont, beyond 31 33 

Yourf,e\, yourselves 19 5 

yourself 30 30 

Yowes, e^ues 33 22 

Yowie, dim. oi yoive 33 52 

Yule, Christmas 180 35 




m 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 




Accept the gift a friend sincere .... 119 

Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! . . . 225 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace . . loi 

Adown winding Nith I did wander . . . 216 

Ae day, as Death, that grusome carl . . 170 

Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! . . . 214 

Again rejoicing nature sees 225 

Again the silent wheels of time .... 70 

A guid New-Year I wish thee, Maggie! . 53 

Ah, Chloris, since it may na be ... . 274 
A head, pure, sinless quite of brain and 

soul 281 

A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight 135 

All devil as I am, a damned wretch . . . 163 

All hail! inexorable lord! 69 

Altho' my back be at the wa' 252 

Altho' my bed were in yon muir .... 240 
Altho' thou maun never be mine .... 196 
Amang the trees where humming bees . . 239 
Amang the heathy hills and ragged woods 103 
Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy De- 
cember! 206 

An honest man here lies at rest .... 121 

Anna, thy charms my bosom fire . . . 227 

An' O ! my Eppie 276 

A rose-bud by my early walk 199 

As cauld a wind as ever blew 156 

As down the burn they took their way . . 252 

As father Adam first was fool'd .... 167 

As I came in by our gate end 247 

As I stood by yon roofless tower .... 209 

As 1 was wand'ring ae midsummer e'enin' 252 

Ask why God made the gem so small . . 168 

A slave to love's unbounded sway . . . 247 

As Mailie, an' her lambs thegither ... 32 

As on the banks o' wandering Nith ... 147 

As Tam the Chapman on a day .... 160 

A' the lads o' Thornie-bank 252 

At Brownhill we always get dainty good 

cheer . . . . . . 175 

Auld chuckle Reekie's sair distrest . . . 122 

Auld comrade dear and brither sinner . . 141 
Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty s 

alarms 195 

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink ... 71 

Bannocks o' bear meal 253 

Beauteous rose-bud, young and gay . . 97 

Behind yon hills where Lugar flows . . 223 

Behold the hour, the boat arrive! . . . 207 

;low thir stanes lie Jamie's banes . . . 173 

ess Jesus Christ, O Cardoness .... 172 



Blest be M'Murdo to his latest day , 
Blithe hae I been on yon hill . . 
Bonie wee thing, cannie wee thing 
Bright ran thy line, O Galloway . 
But lately seen in gladsome green 
But rarely seen since Nature's birth 
By Allan stream I chanc'd to rove . 
By Ochtertyre grows the aik . . , 
By yon castle wa', at the close of the day 



Can I cease to care 

Cauld blaws the wind frae east to v 
Cauld is the e'enin' blast . . . 
Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing 
Clarinda, mistress of my soul . . . 
Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er 
Come, let me take thee to my breast 
Coming through the rye, poor body 
Contented wi' little, and cantie wi' ms 
Could aught of song declare my pains 
Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch 

life 

Curse on ungrateful man that ( 

pleas'd 



Dear Smith, the sleeest, paukie thief 

Dear , I'll give thee some advice 

Deluded swain, the pleasure . . . 
Dire was the hate at old Harlaw 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat? 
Duncan Gray came here to woo . . 
Dweller in yon dungeon dark . . . 



Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell 
Edina! Scotia's darling seat ! . . 
E.xpect na. Sir, in this narration . 



Fair empress of the Poet's soul . . 
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face . . 
Fair maid, you need not take the hint 
Fair the face of orient day .... 
False flatterer, Hope, away! . . . 
Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame . . 
Farewell, dear Friend! may guid luck 

you 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth 

and ye skies 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong 
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped 
Fill me with the rosy wine 



Par<' 

176 
217 
203 
169 
189 
156 




INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Fintray, my stay in worldly strife 

First when Maggy was my care .... 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy 

green braes ... 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn . . . 
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near . . . 
Frae the friends and land I love .... 
Friday first's the day appointed .... 
Friend of the Poet, tried and leal . . . 

From thee, Eliza, 1 must go 

From those drear solitudes and frowzy 

cells 

Full well thou know'st I love thee dear 
Fy, let us a' to Kircudbright 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night . . 

Gat ye me, O gat ye me 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may 



Page 



Gudeen ^o you, Kimmer 

Guid-mornin to your Majesty ! . . . 
Guid speed an' furder to you, Johny . 

Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore 
Had I the wyte, had I the wyte . . . 
Hail,Poesie! thou Nymph reserv'd ! . 
Hail, thairm-inspirin', rattlin' Willie! . 
Hark! the mavis' evening sang . . . 
Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil? . 
Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crawlin ferlie ! . 
Health to the Maxwells' vet'ran Chief! 
Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots 
He clench'd his pamphlets in his fist . 
Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald . . 
He looked Just as your Sign-post lions do 
Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad 
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing 
Here awa, there awa, wandering Will 
Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct 

Here comes Burns 

Here Holy Willie's sair worn clay . 
Hen i the glen, and here the bower 
Here lie Willie Michie's banes . . 
Here lies a mock Mart,jis whose titles 

were shamm'd 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose ... 
Here lies John Bushby, honest man! . 

Here lies Johnny Pidgeon 

Here sowter Hood in Death does sleep 
Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd . . 
Here where the Scottish Muse iramorta 



Here's a bottle and an honest friend ! 
Here's a health to them that's awa . 
Here's to thy health, my bonie lass . 
He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and 

dead 

Hey, the dusty miller . . . . . 
His face with smile eternal drest . . 
Honest Will to lieaven is gane . . 
Hov/ can my poor heart be glad . . 
How cold is that bosom which folly once 

fired 

How cruel .ire the parents . . . 
How 4aur ye ca' me howlet-faced . 



Page 
How lang and dreary is the night . . . i88 
How pleasant the banks of the clear- 
winding Devon 215 

How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace . . 147 
How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and 

unite 107 

Husband, husband, cease your strife . . 1S6 

I am a keeper of the law i6g 

I am my mammie's ae bairn 246 

" I burn, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn 160 

I call no Goddess to inspire my strains . 121 

I coft a stane o' haslock woo' 256 

1 do confess thou art sae fair 213 

I dreamed I lay where flowers were 

springing 211 

If thou should ask my love 258 

If ye gae "p to yon hill-tap 244 

If you rattle along like your mistress's 

tongue 163 

I gaed a waefu gate yestreen 201 

I gaed up to Dunse 248 

I gat your letter, winsome Willie ... 78 

I had sax owsen in a pleugh 247 

I hae a wife o' my ain 180 

I hold it. Sir, m.y bounden duty .... 132 

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend . 70 

Ilk care and fear, when thou art near . . 234 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town 234 

I married with a scolding wife .... 256 

I met a lass, a bonie lass 164 

I mind it weel, in early date 125 

I murder hate Dy field or flood .... 171 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor . 103 

In coming by the brig o' Dye . . . . . 257 

Inhuman man! curse on thy barb'rous art 96 
In Mauchline there dwells six proper 

young Belles 243 

In politics if thoa wouldst mix . . . . 170 

In simmer when the hay was mawn . . 204 
Instead of a Song, boys, I'll give you a 

Toast 168 

In this strange land, this uncouth clime . 150 
In Tarbnlton, ye ken, there are proper 

young men 244 

In vain would Prudence, with decorous 

sneer 159 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng . . 153 

I see a form, I see a face 193 

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth , 105 

Is there a whim-inspired fool 173 

Is there, for honest poverty 227 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard .... 221 

It is na, Jean, thy bonie face 257 

It was a' for our rightfu' King .... 257 
It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did 

me enthral 235 

It was the charming month of May . . . 219 

It was upon a Lammas night 222 

Jenny M'Craw, she has ta'en to the 

heather . . . . . 165 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss .... 210 

John Anderson my jo, John 201 

Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief . . . 171 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



631 



Page 

Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose? . . . 232 

Kilmarnock Wabsters, fidge and claw . . 29 

Kind Sir, I've read your paper through . no 

Know thou, O stranger to the fame . . 173 

Lament him, Mauchline husbands a' . . 174 

Lament in rhyme, lament in prose ■ . • 33 

Landlady, count the lawin 258 

Lass, when your mither is frae hame . . 164 
Last May a braw wooer cam down the 

lang glen 194 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a leg . 88 

Let not woman e'er complain 219 

Let other heroes boast their scars . . . 162 

Let other Poets raise a fracas .... 6 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize . . 109 

Light lay the earth on Billy's breast . . 160 

Like Esop's lion. Burns says, sore I feel . 150 
Lone on the bleaky hills the straying 

flocks 152 

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours . 150 

Lord, to account who dares thee call . . 175 

Lord, we thank an' thee adore .... 165 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes 196 

Louis, what reck I by thee 208 

Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion . . 193 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave ... 161 

Musing on the roaring ocean 197 

My blessings on ye, honest wife . . . 176 

My bottle is my holy pool 166 

My Chloris, mark how green the groves . 218 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang . . . 101 
My Father was a Farmer upon the Carrick 

border O 238 

My H.irry was a gallant gay 251 

My heart is a breaking, dear Tittle . . 201 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell .... 208 

My heart is wae, and unco wae .... 278 
My heart's in the Highlands, my heart is 

not here 212 

My heart was ance as blythe and free . . 258 

My honor'd Colonel, deep I feel . . . 121 

My lord a-hunting he is gane .... 246 

My Lord, I know your noble ear ... 98 
My lov'd, my honor'd, much respected 

friend! 61 

My love she's but a lassie yet .... 258 

My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form . . 211 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair . . 210 

Nae heathen name shall I prefix .... 140 
No churchman am I for to rail and to 

write 224 

No more of your guests, be they titled or 

not 119 

No more, ye warblers of the wood — no 

morel 118 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous 

lay 123 

No song nor dance I bring from yon great 

city log 

No Stewart art thou, Galloway .... 169 

Now bank an' brae are claith'd in green . 214 

Now health forsakes that angel face . . 161 
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature 

arrays 190 



Now Kennedy, if foot or horse . . 
Now nature deeds the flowery lea . 
Now Nature hangs her mantle green 
Now Robin lies in his last lair . . 
Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers 
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes 
Now spring has clad the groves in green 
Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns 



O a' ye pious godly flocks 

O bonie was yon rosy brier 

" O cam ye here the fight to shun . . . 
O can ye labour lea, young man . . . 
O, could I give thee India's wealth 
O Death, hadst thou but spar'd his life 
O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody ! 
O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone 



Page 



Of a' the 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our 

peace 

O gie my love brose, brose 

O Goudie ! terror o' the Whigs . . . . 
O, had the malt thy strength of mind . . 
Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times . . 
Oh ! I am come to the low countrie . . 
Oh, open the door, some pity to shew . . 
O how can I be blithe and glad . . . . 

O how shall I, unskilfu', try 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten 
O Kenmure's on and awa, Willie! . . . 

O, Lady Mary .A,nn 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet? . . . 
Old Winter with his frosty beard . . . 
O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles . . 
O leeze me on my spinnin wheel . . . 
O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide . . . 
O Lord, when hunger pinches sore . . . 
O luve will venture in, where it daur na 

weel be seen 

O Mally's meek, Mally's sweet . . . 

O Mary, at thy window be 

O May, thy morn was ne'er sae sweet 
O meikle thinks my luve o' my beauty . 
O merry hae I been teethin' a heckle . . 
O mirk, mirk is this midnight hour . . . 
O, my hive's like a red, red rose . . 
On a bank of flowers, in a summer day . 
On Cessnock banks a lassie dwells . . . 
Once fondly lov'd, and still remember'd 

dear 

One night as I did wander 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell . 
On peace and rest my mind was bent . . 

O, once I lov'd a bonie lass 

O Philly, happy be that day 

O poortith cauld, and restless love . . . 
Oppress'd with grief, oppress'd with care 
O raging fortune's withering blast . . . 

O rattiin', roarin' Willie 

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine . . 

Orthodox, orthodox 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John 

Knox 

O sad and heavy should I part . . . . 
O saw ye bonie Lesley 




632 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Page 

O saw ye my dear, my Phely? .... 218 

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? . 276 

O stay, sweet warbling woodlark, stay . 192 

O steer her up, and hand her gaun . . . 262 

O that I had ne'er been married . . . 277 

O Thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above 67 

O Thou Great Being! what Thou art . . 68 

O Thou, in whom we live and move . . 165 

() thou pale Orb, that silent shines ... 59 

O Thou, the first, the greatest friend . . 68 

O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause . . 66 

O Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell . 130 

O thou ! whatever title suit thee ... 31 

O Thou, who kindly dost provide . . . 123 

O thou whom Poetry abhors 172 

Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair . . 253 

Out over the Forth I look to the North . 214 

O, wat ye wha's in yon town 209 

O wat ye what my minnie did .... 164 

O, were I on Parnassus' hill! .... 200 

O were my love yon lilac fair .... 217 

O, wert thou in the cauld blast .... 210 

O wha is she that lo'es me 231 

O wha my babie-clouts will buy? . . . 213 
O, whar did ye get that hauver meal 

bannock? 262 

O whare live ye my bonie lass .... 274 

O wha will to St. Stephen's house . . 262 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad . 185 

O why the deuce should I repine . . . 247 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut . . . 200 
O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie 

Dunbar? 251 

O ye wha are sae guid yoursel .... 41 

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains 174 

Peg Nicholson was a gude bay mare . . 155 

Powers celestial, whose protection . . . 235 

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy 

name 150 

Raving winds aroimd her blowing . . . 197 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart . . 115 

Right, Sir! your text I'll prove it true . 30 

Rusticity's ungainly form 175 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page 97 

Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow . . 254 

Sae flaxen were her ringlets 1S8 

Say, Sages, what's the charm on earth . 156 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled . . . 227 

Searching auld wives' barrels . . . . 170 

Sensibility, how charming 239 

She is a winsome wee thing 180 

She's fair and fause that causes my smart 204 

Should auld acquaintance be forgot . . 226 

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came 116 

Sic a reptile was Wat 175 

Simmer's a pleasant time 263 

Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless 

bough 119 

Sir, as your mandate did request . . . 104 

Sir, o'er a gill I gat your card .... 133 
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest 



Page 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires . 240 

So heavy, passive to the tempests' shocks 231 

Some books are lies frae end to end . . ig 

Some hae meat, and canna eat .... 155 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway . . 169 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me? . 197 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour in 

Strait is the spot and green the sod . . . 280 

Streams that glide in orient plains . . . 216 
Sweet closes the evening on Craigie-burn- 

wood 251 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee . . 242 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn . . . 191 

Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love . . 102 

Sweet naivete of feature 155 

Talk not to me of savages 156 

That there is falsehood in his looks . . 170 

The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout . . 249 

The black-headed eagle 165 

The blude red rose at Yule may blaw . . 263 

The boniest lad that e'er I saw .... 264 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen . . 200 

The cats like kitchen 163 

The cooper o' Cuddie cam here awa . . 264 

The day returns, my bosom burns . . . 200 

The De'il cam fiddling thro' the town . . 216 
The Devil got notice that Grose was a- 

dying .._..._ 172 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among . 123 

The flower it blaws, it fades, it fa's . . . 248 

The friend whom wild from wisdom's way 120 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast . . . 225 
The graybeard. Old Wisdom, may boast 

of his treasures . . _ 171 

The heather was blooming, the meadows 

were mawn 275 

Their groves o' sweet myrtles let foreign 

lands reckon 191 

The King's most humble servant I . . . 166 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith . . . 277 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare 138 

The last braw bridal that I was at . . . 165 
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the 

hill 198 

The lovely lass o' Inverness 208 

The man, in life wherever plac'd ... 68 

The night was still, and o'er the hill . . 153 

The noble Maxwells, and their powers . 265 

The ploughman he's a bonie lad . . . 268 

The poor man weeps — here Gavin sleeps 173 

There came a piper out o' Fife . . . . 165 

There liv'd a lass in yonder dale . . . 274 

There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes . 266 
There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen ............ 170 

There's a youth in this city, it were a 

great pity 212 

There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes iSi 

There's death in the cup — sae beware! . 157 

There's naethin like the honest nappy ! . 161 

There's news, lasses, news 277 

There's nought but care on ev'ry ban' . 223 
There was a bonie lass, and a bonie. bonie 

lass .... 250 

There was a lad was born in Kyle . . . 236 






INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



633 



Page 

There was a lass, and she was fair . . . 184 

There was a lass, they ca'd her Meg . . 267 

There was a wife wonn'd in Cockpen . . 277 
There was once a day, but old Time then 

was young 229 

There were five Carlins in the south . . 248 

There were three Kings into the east . . 220 
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic 

plough . . . . _ , . 24 

The small birds rejoice in the green leaves 

returning 243 

The smiling spring comes in rejoicing . . 208 

The Solemn League and Covenant . . . 155 

The sun had clos'd the winter day ... 38 
The Tailor fell thro' the bed, thimbles 

an' a' 265 

The Thames flows proudly to the sea . . 203 

The tither morn 265 

The weary pund, the weary pund . . . 268 

The wind blew hollow frae the hills ... 89 
The winter it is past, and the simmer 

comes at last 243 

The wintry west extends his blast ... 61 

Ihey snool me sair, and baud me down . 203 

Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling! . 197 

Thine am I, my faithful fair 186 

Thine be the volumes, Jessy fair . . . 118 

This Day Time winds th' exhausted chain 116 

This wot ye all whom it concerns . . . in 

Tho' cruel fate should bid us part . . . 211 

Thou flattering mark of friendship kind . 156 

Though firkl,. Fortune has deceiv'd me . 159 

Thou h:i ■ I. • ',.1, Jamie .... 218 

Thou iii -_ '- - , 1 ith less'ning ray . 241 

Thou of .111 111. .cp 11 uni mind 117 

Thou's welcome, wean ! mishanter fa' me 140 

Thou whom chance may hither lead . . 82 
Thou, who thy honour as thy God 

rever'st . 90 

Tho' women's minds like winter winds . 241 

Through and through the inspired leaves 157 
'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair 

friend 114 

To Riddel, much-lamented man .... 157 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains . 247 

To you. Sir, this summons I've sent . . 280 
True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 

Yarrow 182 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza 204 

'Tvvas even — the dewy fields were green . 178 

'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle . . i 

'Twas in the seventeen hunder year . . 272 

'Twas na her bonie blue ee was my ruin . 192 
'Twas where the birch and sounding thong 

are ply'd 135 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn .... 14 

Upon that night, when Fairies light. . . 44 

Up wi' the carles of Uysart 268 

Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my ee 275 

Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf! . 158 

Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray 269 

We came na here to view your warks . . 168 

Wee, modest, crimson-tipped flow'r . . 69 



Page 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin, tim'rous beastie . . 54 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet . 257 

Wha is that at my bower door? .... 214 

Whan I sleep I dream 274 

Whare hae ye been sae braw, lad? . . . 269 

What ails ye now, ye lousie bitch ... 165 
What can a young lassie, what shall a 

young lassie 202 

What dost thou in that mansion fair? . . 169 
What needs this din about the town o' 

Lon'on 136 

What of earls with whom you have supt . 159 

What will I do gin my Hoggie die? . . . 269 

Wha will buy my troggin 271 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure . . 55 

When by a generous public's kind acclaim 161 

When chapman billies leave the street . . 91 

When chill November's surly blast ... 65 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er . . 123 

When , deceased, to the devil went 

down 176 

When first I came to Stewart Kyle . . . 239 
When first I saw fair Jeanie's face . . . 278 
When first my brave Johnnie lad ... 209 
When Guilford good our Pilot stood . . 221 
When I think on the happy days . . . 274 
When Januar' wind was blawing cauld . 249 
When lyart leaves bestrew the yird ... 48 
When Nature her great master-piece de- 
sign 'd 86 

When o'er the hill the eastern star ... 179 

When the drums do beat 259 

When wild war's deadly blast was blawn . 237 
Where are the joys 1 have met in the 

morning 217 

Where, braving angry winter's storms . 198 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea . . . 227 

While at the stook the shearers cowr . . 128 
While briers an' woodbines budding 

green 75 

While Europe's eye is fix'd on mighty 

things Ill 

While larks with little wing 184 

While ne\v-ca"d kye rowte at the stake . 77 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood . . 97 

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw . 57 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here . . . 168 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know . . . 173 

Whom will you send to London town I . . 269 

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow? . . 134 

Why am I loth to leave this earthly scene? 67 

Why, why tell thy lover 2J9 

Why, ye tenants of the lake ..... 132 

Wi' braw new branksin mickle pride . . is7 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed .... 207 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary . . . 236 

Wilt thou be my dearie? 186 

With Pegasus upon a day 158 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! . 108 



Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 226 

Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon . . . 206 

Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon . . . 206 

Ye gallants bright, I red you right . . . 211 

Ye hae lien a' wrang, lassie 164 



v^-- 




-534 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 




Page 

V'e Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires . 9 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give 

an ear 273 

Ye maggots feast on Nicol's brain . . . 165 
Ye men of v^it and wealth, why all this 

sneering 171 

Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie 273 

Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song . 158 

Yestreen I had a pint o' wine 215 

Yestreen I met you on the moor . . . . igg 
Vo true " Loyal Natives," attend to my 

sang 158 



Yon wand'ring rill, that marks the hill 
Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and 



ide 



Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain . . 
Young Jockey was the blithest lad . . 
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass 
Your billet, sir, I grant receipt . . . 
Your News, and Review, Sir, I've read 

through and throi-.gh. Sir . . . 
Your welcome to Despots, Dumourier 
You're welcome, Willie Stewart . . 
Yours this moment I unseal . . . 







INDEX TO THE LETTERS. 



To Miss Ellison Begbie, Nos. 1-4. 
William Burness, No. 5. 
Mr. John Murdoch, Nos. 6, 212. 
Commonplace Book, Nos. 7, 149. 
Mr. James Burness, Nos. 8-10, 173, 329. 

Miss , Nos, II, 294. 

MissK , No. 12. 

Mr. John Richmond, Nos. 13, 16, 18, 57. 
Mr. Robert Muir, Nos. 14, 21, 29, 33, 59, 

129. 
Mr. David Brice, Nos. 15, 17. 
Mr. James Smith, Nos. 19, 53, 56, 140. 
Mr. John Kennedy, No. 20. 
Mr. Barnes, No. 22. 
Mr. Robert Aiken, No. 23. 
Mrs. Dunlop, Nos. 24, 38, 47, 48, 50, 94, 

113, 130, 141, 143, 146, 147, 153-155, 158, 

i6i, 164, 168, 174, 179, 189, 192, 197, 

203, 209, 214, 219, 222, 229, 241, 246, 

249, 251, 252, 260, 261, 295, 315, 316, 

319, 328. 
Mrs. Stewart, No. 25. 
Dr. Mackenzie, No. 26. 
Miss Ale.\ander, No. 27. 
William Chalmers and John McAdam, 

No. 28. 
Gavin Hamilton, Esq., Nos. 30, 60, 72, 120. 
James Dalrymple, Esq., No. 31. 
John Ballantine, Esq., Nos. 32, 36, 37, 42. 
Mr. William Chalmers, No. 34. 
The Earl of Eglinton, No. 35. 
Dr. Moore, Nos. 39, 41, 49, 58, 169, 177, 

211, 224. 
The Rev. G. Lawrie, No. 40. 
The Earl of Glencairn, Nos. 43, 96, 269. 
The Earl of Buchan, Nos. 44, 233, 287. 
Mr. James Candlish, Nos. 45, 112. 

, Nos. 46, 125, 218, 230, 231. 

The Rev. Dr. Hugh Blair, No. 51. 
Mr. W. Nicol, Nos. 52, 54, 206, 244. 
Robert Ainslie, Esq., Nos. 55, 58, 124, 145, 

148, 150, 170, 186, 194, 236, 272. 
Mr. Walker, No. 61. 
Mr. Gilbert Burns, Nos. 62, 201, 325. 
Miss Margaret Chalmers, Nos. 63, 64, 70, 

73, 78, 80,93, "6, 131, 139, 157. 
James Hoy, Esq., Nos. 65, 67. 
Rev. John Skinner, Nos. 66, 114. 
Miss Mabane, No. 69. 
Sir John Whitefoord, No. 71. 
Mrs. M'Lehose (Clarinda), Nf>s. 74-77. 
Charles Hay, Esq., No. 79. 



To Clarinda, Nos. 8r, 82, 84-92, 97-111, 118 

119, 122, 126, 127, 132-135, 176, 205, 

238-240, 263, 297. 
Mr. Richard Brown, Nos. 83, 115, 121, 128, 

136, 182, 195. 
Robert Graham, Esq., Nos. 95, 196, 

259. 
Mrs. Rose, No. 117. 
Mr. William Cruikshank, Nos. 123, 167. 
Mr. Robert Cleghorn, No. 137. 
Mr. William Dunbar, Nos. 138, 202. 
Professor Dugald Stewart, Nos. 142, 171 
Mr. Samuel Brown, No. 144. 
Mr. Peter Hill, Nos. 151, 159, 178, 204, 

208, 220, 243. 
Mr. George Lockhart, No. 152. 
Mr. Beugo, No. 156. 
The Editor of the " Star," No. 160. 
Dr. Blacklock, No. 162. 
Mr. James Johnson, Nos. 163, 296, 323. 
Miss Davies, Nos. 165, 237. 
Mr. John Tennant, No. 166. 
Bishop Geddes, No. 172. 
The Rev. P. Carfrae, No. 175. 
Mrs. McMurdo, No. 180. 
Mr. Cunningham, Nos. 181, 207, 215, 225, 

232, 247, 264, 293, 324. 
Mr. James Hamilton, No. 183. 
William Creech, No. 184. 
Mr. McAuley, No. 185. 
Mr. [Peter Stuart], No. 187. 
Miss Williams, No. 188. 
Lady Glencairn, No. 190. 
Mr. John Logan, No. 191. 
Capt. Riddel, No. 193. 
Sir John Sinclair, No. 198. 
Lady Winifred Ma.xwell Constable, No 

199. 
Charles Sharpe, Esq., No. 200. 
Collector Mitchell, No. 210. 
John McMurdo, Esq., Nos. 213, 285. 
Dr. Anderson, No. 216. 
Crauford Tait, Esq., No. 217. 
A. F. Tytler, Esq., No. 221. 
The Rev. Arch. Alison, No. 223. 
Mr. Alexander Dalzel, No. 226. 
Mrs. Graham, No. 227. 
The Rev. G. Baird, No. 228. 
Mr. Thomas Sloan, No. 234. 
Lady E. Cunningham, No. 235. 
Mr. William Smellie, No. 242. 
Francis Grose, Esq., No. 245. 



w 



636 



IJVDEX TO THE LETTERS. 




To Mr. G. Thomson, Nos. 248, 250, 253, ^54, 
258, 262, 267, 270, 271, 273-275, 277-2S4, 
298-306, 308, 309, 3"-3i3, 32', 322, 32G. 
330. 

Miss Fontenelle, No. 255. 

A Lady, No. 256. 

Mrs. RidJel, Nos. 257, 288, 290-292, 314, 
318, 320. 

Miss Benson, No. 265. 

Patrick Miller, Esq., No. 266. 

John Francis Erskme, Esq., No. 268. 

Miss Helen Craik, No. 276. 



To Captain fRoberston of Liide?], No. 2^6. 
Mr. Samuel Clarke, jun.. No. 289. 
Peter Miller, jun., Klsq., No. 307. 
Mr. Heron, No. 310. 
The Hon. the Provost, Bailies, and lov 

Council of Dumfries, No. 317. 
Mrs. Burns, No. 327. 
James Gracie, Esq., No. 331- 
Mr. James Armour, No. ^32. 

The Border Tour, p. 567. 
The Highland Tour, p. 574. 



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